With a frown, Torin reached toward the cloth and pulled it away.
The fabric slid off easily, pooling at his feet, revealing what lay beneath.
A spear.
It was long—at least six and a half feet—and thin, with the color of aged ivory. The shaft seemed to be carved from a single large bone, its surface smooth and polished, except for some yellowing spots that spoke of great age.
The base of the spear, where the spike began, was considerably darker—almost brown, like old bloodstains that had soaked deep into the material.
Torin picked up the spear from the priest's hands. The man was clearly relieved to let go of the heavy weapon, merely nodding and backing away with a small bow before retreating toward the other end of the temple.
Torin continued to inspect the spear, his hands tracing every detail.
Leather wrappings adorned the shaft in three places—one at the center, another just below the tip, and a third near the spike at the base. The leather was old, cracked in places, but still intact. Words were carved into it, the angular script of the old Nordic tongue, the language of the first men who had crossed the sea from Atmora.
The shaft itself was decorated with runes—hundreds of them, carved into the bone, spiraling up from the base to the tip. They were small, precise, clearly magical in nature. Torin could feel the power radiating off them, a low thrum that vibrated through his fingers and up his arms.
Then there was the tip. The bone had been carved into a thin, leaf-like shape, sharp as a razor on both edges. Two smaller spikes pointed upward just below it, curving slightly outward like barbs on a fishing hook.
And finally, there was a piece of ancient cloth tied around the top of the spear, just below the tip. It was black—faded now, more grey than black—and frayed at the edges. It fluttered slightly in the draft from the temple's open doors.
Torin blinked slowly.
"A spear made of bone," he said. "Looks ancient." His eyes widened as a realization began to form. He turned to Torygg. "Is this...?"
Torygg nodded, his grin widening.
"One dragon bone." He let the words hang in the air. "Carved into a spear by the First Tongues—the warriors who first learned to Shout, who rose in defiance of the dragons of old... or so the legends say."
He waited for Torin to resume inspecting the spear with newfound fascination before he added the final piece.
"The only thing we know for certain is that it was enchanted by Arch-Mage Shalidor himself."
Torin froze.
Shalidor.
The name echoed in his mind, resonating with the weight of centuries. The greatest mage in Skyrim's history. A figure of myth, said to have whispered Winterhold into existence—to have spoken a single word and watched a city rise from the snow.
Not only that, but he had fought an entire Dwemer clan on his own—an army of metal and steam and ancient fury—and even if the stories were exaggerated, it meant he had faced a host of Dwemer and lived to tell the tale.
And Torin was holding a spear that Shalidor himself had enchanted.
He took another glance at the weapon in his hands—at the aged bone, the carved runes, the fluttering black cloth.
He could feel the weight of it, in his soul. This was a piece of history. A relic of an age when magic was wilder and men were greater.
He turned back to Torygg.
"Why are you giving this to me?"
Torygg smiled and shrugged, the gesture almost casual.
"Because I expect great things from you." He paused. "And because I wish to show my sincerity to the people of Daggerfall. Sending a famous warrior is enough. However, sending a powerful warrior with a weapon forged from dragonbone and enchanted by Shalidor?"
His smile widened. "That shows commitment."
Torin felt his brow twitch.
Sure enough, he mused. You can't expect a free lunch, and this damned High King just had to present me with an irresistible five-course meal.
Even if Torin didn't favor spears—and he didn't, not really, he was an axe and hammer man through and through—that wouldn't stop him from wanting a weapon made from literal dragonbone.
And beyond that, beyond the material, beyond the craftsmanship, there was the enchantment. Shalidor's enchantment. The secrets it might hold, the mysteries it might reveal, the insights it might offer into magics that had been lost for millennia.
There was very little that Torin wouldn't give to get this spear. If nothing else, just to study what Shalidor had done.
Torin sighed.
"Fine." He hefted the spear, testing its balance. "I'll make the trip to High Rock. I'll solve their stupid sea giant problem." He cleared his throat and turned back to Torygg. "Now then... you wouldn't happen to know what kind of enchantments this spear has, would you?"
Torygg's smile widened.
"Let's go back to Castle Dour." He turned and began walking toward the temple's exit. "It'll be easier to try it there."
Torin followed, the spear heavy in his hand, its runes pulsing faintly in the candlelight.
...
Soon enough, Torin and Torygg were back in Castle Dour's courtyard. The young soldiers who had been training earlier were gone—their swords sheathed, their armor stored, their shouts and laughter faded into the evening.
The sky had fully darkened now, the last traces of orange and purple swallowed by deep blue, and the stars were beginning to emerge overhead. Torches flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows across the cobblestones.
Torygg gestured at the training dummy in the center of the yard—a battered thing of straw and burlap, wrapped in old armor, stabbed and slashed and beaten to the edge of collapse.
"I don't need to tell you about the sharpness and hardness of dragon bone," the High King said. "Which makes this spear better than most enchanted weapons before we even discuss the magic."
He paused, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. "But besides that, it has two enchantments. The first is rather simple." He gestured toward the dummy. "Just stab it. You'll see."
Torin nodded and took a step back, giving himself room.
He began to feel around the spear with his hands, sliding them along the aged bone, searching for the most natural grip.
The leather wrappings guided him—one hand slightly above the butt of the spear, the other slightly above the center. He adjusted his stance, his knees bending slightly, his weight shifting forward onto the balls of his feet. He pointed the spear toward the dummy, the leaf-shaped tip gleaming in the firelight.
He felt satisfied with the pose. He might not have any experience wielding a spear, but he'd killed more than enough people who used sharp sticks to learn from their deadly mistakes.
His eyes sharpened. He took one step forward, then another, and thrust the spear at the dummy's chest.
The tip pierced through the cloth and into the hay within—clean, easy, exactly as expected. Nothing unusual about that.
What gave Torin pause was the glow.
The runes on the spear's shaft began to pulse—soft at first, then brighter, a pale blue light that spread from the carved symbols and up the length of the bone. The light reached the tip, flickered, and then...
The dummy froze.
Torin couldn't help but stare at the result, wide-eyed.
The dummy was completely encased in ice—a thick shell of frost that gleamed in the torchlight, reflecting the flames in fractured rainbows. The burlap beneath was frozen solid, the straw inside crackling audibly as the cold contracted and compressed.
Even the wooden stand had begun to frost over, ice creeping down the legs and spreading across the cobblestones.
He'd seen elemental enchantments before. Countless times. Frost, in particular, was common among warriors—especially Nords, who loved the chill of their homeland and respected the cold as both weapon and adversary.
A typical frost enchantment would make whatever you hit very cold. The victim's breath would mist. Their skin would pale. Their movements would slow. If they couldn't handle the cold—if they were wounded, or tired, or simply unlucky—their bodies would begin to shake, their joints would stiffen, and they'd become easy targets.
At most, and this was only with the most potent frost enchantments, you'd see a small sheet of ice forming over the area you struck. A patch of frost on a shield. A crust of ice on a leather jerkin.
But encasing an entire humanoid target in ice? In this day and age, with the knowledge of enchantments dwindling and the art of magic becoming coarser with each passing generation? Unheard of.
Torin pulled the spear back. The ice remained, the dummy still frozen, the frost still spreading.
He stared at it, then at the spear, then back at the ice.
"That's..." He trailed off, searching for the right words.
"Useful?" Torygg suggested, his voice light.
Torin chuckled—a short, genuine sound.
"Very." His grip tightened over the spear, his fingers finding the leather wrappings, feeling the ancient bone beneath. "Now I'm really excited to know about the other enchantment."
Torygg's expression shifted. The satisfaction that had been on his face—the pride of a king presenting a gift—faded into something more troubled. His brow furrowed. His lips pressed together.
"That," he said slowly, "is yet another reason I'm giving you this spear."
He sighed, the sound heavy with something that might have been regret.
"In truth... I only know that it has a second enchantment." He met Torin's eyes. "As for what it is..." He shook his head. "I don't know."
Torin stared at him blankly.
"You don't know?"
Torygg nodded, his expression apologetic.
"You have to understand—this weapon has been collecting dust in the temple for thousands of years. The priests maintained it, kept it polished, ensured the enchantments didn't fade... but they didn't study it. They didn't test it. They didn't try to understand what made it work."
He spread his hands. "The records we have are also incomplete. Fragments. Scraps of parchment that have survived wars and fires and the simple decay of time."
He stepped closer, his voice lowering.
"It's my hope that you—with your knowledge, your skill, your connection to the College—can decipher this second enchantment. That you can help this relic of our people reclaim its lost potential and glory."
Torin couldn't help but smile bitterly.
As expected of a king. That would be what? Five birds already with one spear? Convince Torin to take up a troublesome task. Impress and win over the Bretons. Test the spear in combat. Decipher a lost mystery that had stumped the court for generations... and gods know what else.
In the end, he could do nothing but nod.
"Alright." He hefted the spear, feeling its weight, its balance, the faint thrum of magic that vibrated through the bone. "I'll do my best. I only stand to benefit from this, after all."
He paused, studying the weapon.
"A relic like this should have a name, no?"
Torygg's smile returned.
"Of course. And thankfully, that part of the record wasn't lost." He gestured toward the spear in Torin's hand. "It is called Skaldrfong."
(Author's note: Prounounced Scald-er-Fawng)
Torin tested the name on his tongue. "Skald's Fang, eh?" The edge of his lip rose. "I'm guessing it wasn't Shalidor who named it."
Torygg shrugged. "You're right. It was already a famous dragon-slaying weapon when Shalidor enchanted it. "He smiled. "The name stayed. Seemed like bad luck to change it."
The High King then stepped forward and gave Torin's shoulder a light pat.
"In any case, you should get some rest. I need you to leave my city as soon as morning comes." He grimaced. "Those spiders of yours outside the gates are scaring the people. Every time someone walks past, they think the Dwemer have returned to finish what they started."
Torin snorted. "They're harmless."
"You know that." Torygg raised an eyebrow. "The guards don't know that. The merchants don't know that. The poor woman who fainted as soon as she stepped outside the gate certainly didn't know that."
Torin sighed.
"Fine. We'll leave at dawn." He looked down at Skaldrfong, at the aged bone and carved runes, at the black cloth fluttering near the tip. "I bet you're eager to get back to Winterhold, too."
The spear remained still. But the runes pulsed once—soft, almost imperceptible—as if in acknowledgment.
...
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