Sensing weakness, Jungor spoke. “I think the king is too ill from his war wounds to continue,” he said, thumping his staff on the floor. “Perhaps we should reconvene when he has recovered his strength.”
This stung Tarn back to his senses. “My injuries are of no concern,” he said as he stood and walked to the center of the dais. “Indeed, I hardly feel them. I only wish that I could not feel the pain of what has occurred. I bring grave news before the Council of Thanes today.”
Jungor’s hand tightened around the arm of his chair as he leaned forward. The room grew deathly silent, so silent that even those in the Gallery outside could hear the depth of Tarn’s sigh.
“I have failed,” Tarn said. “My army is lost. Qualinost is destroyed, the home of the elves is gone.” His last words were lost in the eruption of shocked cries. Tarn closed his eyes and allowed the thunder of voices to sweep over him and pummel him like hurled stones.
Jungor flew out of his chair and pounded the butt of his staff on the floor, demanding silence. Gradually the crowd noise died down to a low murmur, punctuated by faint roars as the crowds outside the Council Hall learned the news. “King Tarn, how did this happen?” Jungor demanded when he could be heard by most of the crowd. “Surely when you say that the army was lost, you do not mean that all were slain. Surely you only mean that you suffered a minor defeat in Qualinost.”
Tarn shook his great blond mane. “All were lost, except for the dozen or so who were with me when the disaster befell us.”
“And how did the king survive while thousands were lost?” Rughar Delvestone shouted, leaping to his feet.
Tarn tried to explain, speaking at some length, with frequent pauses to wait for the crowd noise to die down. He tried to explain how he and King Gilthas had plotted to destroy the green dragon Beryl and save the homeland of the elves. While the majority of the residents of Qualinost had escaped through the tunnels Tarn and his dwarves burrowed beneath their city, several thousand elf warriors had remained behind, and, with the aid of some rebellious Dark Knights sympathetic to the elves, they prepared to lure Beryl into a deadly trap. Their plan was to draw Beryl in close and then launch strong strands of rope over her body, entangling and trapping her wings and forcing her to the ground. Tarn’s army of dwarves waiting in the tunnels were expected to rise and up and slay the dragon once she was brought down.
Tarn explained that he had been with King Gilthas, leading the last refugees to safety, when the disaster struck. He told of what had happened to him and his guards in the tunnels, the collapses and the flooding that had nearly drowned them. “We found the elves’ city drowned beneath a vast new lake. Our tunnels beneath the city must have been flooded, and the dwarves in them either crushed or drowned. To be perfectly honest, I do not yet know their fate. Some may have survived, but if they did, I could not find them.”
Jungor turned to the other thanes, a horrified expression on his face. Many of the gathered dwarves tore their beards in anger and sorrow. Tarn’s army had consisted largely of the newest generation of young warriors of Thorbardin. Among the youth he had found his readiest allies in his bold plan to aid the elves. Few families in the Council Hall had not given a son or daughter, nephew or niece, especially among the Hylar, Klar, and Daewar clans. Now the sight of their grief was terrible to behold, the sound of it like the roar of the wind in a tunnel. Jungor staggered, dropped his staff, and clutched at the hems of his fine silk robe—his own shock part genuine, part charade.
Tarn shouted over the crowd, “I cannot replace your lost children. I regret having gone against the wisdom of this esteemed Council of Thanes. I am not worthy to be your king. And therefore I must offer my resignation.”
Jungor paused in the act of ceremoniously tearing his robes. His mouth fell open and he turned slowly to stare in surprise at Tarn. The other thanes, who had likewise been preparing to publicly demonstrate their grief and displeasure, were struck silent in amazement. The rest of the crowd was more slow to respond, as most of them had not been able to hear Tarn’s declaration. But as word spread, a pall of silence spread over the dwarves.
“What did you say?” Jungor asked in disbelief.
Tarn cleared his throat and seemed to sway on his feet for a moment. “I am not worthy to be your king,” he repeated after a moment.
Jungor’s mouth snapped shut. He glared suspiciously at Tarn as the crowd erupted. Many began to cry, “Here! Here! It is time for a new king!” But this was quickly met by opposing voices shouting, “Never! Tarn is our king!”
“Tarn has failed us.”
“He has led us well.”
“My son is dead. My daughter is dead. He deluded his followers.”
“Do not dishonor them with grief. Tarn is their king still.”
“Let the Council vote.”
“We demand a new high thane.”
“Tarn Bellowgranite is our king!”
Tarn raised his hand, enjoining the crowd to silence. It took some time before they ceased their arguments long enough to hear what he had to say. Jungor had stalked back to his chair, his mind a confused wonder.
Finally the crowd grew quiet enough for Tarn to speak. Hundreds of grim faces looked down at him, standing alone in the center of the dais, surrounded by the six thanes. He cleared his throat, then spoke solemnly. “My mind is made up. I shall surrender my authority at the Council’s convenience. When they have chosen a new king, I shall step aside. This is the least I can do to repay you for the disaster I have brought upon Thorbardin.”
“Disaster?” Mog Bonecutter shouted angrily. Stepping up on the dais, he turned quickly to his clan’s thane, Glint Ettinhammer, and asked, “May I address the Council?”
The Klar thane nodded his shaggy head.
Mog approached Tarn. He still carried the strange disk-shaped object wrapped in its blanket and resting on his back. “The king says that his plan to save the elves ended in disaster,” Mog declared loudly. “But I say that a glorious victory was won. Most of the Qualinesti elves did escape, after all.”
“As good as that is to hear, I hardly think the price we paid was worth it,” Jungor interrupted. Not a few members of the crowd voiced their agreement.
“Very well. Then was it worth it to kill Beryl?” Mog angrily asked as he unslung his mysterious burden and flung it on the floor. Flicking back the tattered blanket, he revealed the huge olive-green dragon scale they had found.
This revelation struck the assembly like a lightning bolt. The cry “Beryl is dead!” rippled out into the Gallery and portico. Jungor was beside himself in his consternation. Why had news of this not yet reached him? He needed time to prepare for this news. Perhaps this was Tarn’s game after all.
However, Tarn seemed to dismiss the claims of his own captain. “I am not yet convinced that Beryl is dead,” he said in a low voice.
Mog grinned and shook his head, turning once more to the excited crowd. “We found this scale floating in the flotsam at the lake’s edge. As you can see, there is still dragon flesh attached to it. No other green dragon on Krynn boasts scales so large, and Beryl does not drop them so casually, nor with her precious hide still attached.”
Jungor rose from his chair and bent to examine the huge scale. He could not deny what Mog said. The scale was enormous and obviously came from a green dragon, and it had been ripped violently from the flesh of that creature. But…
“Did you see her carcass?” he asked the Klar captain.
“N-no, but—” Mog stammered.
“Never count a dragon dead until you have personally beheld her bleached white bones,” Jungor said meaningfully. He then turned to address the crowd. “I think the king is correct in this matter,” he said. “We cannot assume that Beryl is dead simply because we have found one scale.”