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Chapter 13:
The Muster of Mzinchaleft

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In the weeks since the call to arms went out, the courtyards of Mzinchaleft's exterior had slowly transformed from a former bandit fort, to an outpost for Dawnstar's guards, and finally into an ad hoc army camp. So many had come, in fact, that the interior of the ruin had to be used, ostensibly for lodging the Muster's leaders and storing the baggage, as well as providing a forward post for the Dunmeri sappers and a rotation of guards, to respectively watch and scout the nearest deep.

From every corner of Skyrim, they came: soldiers of Windhelm's militia and the Imperial Legion, a platoon of Thalmor and every Vigilant of Stendarr who could be spared. Companions of Ysgramor, Thieves' Guild pathfinders, Calcelmo of Markarth with whoever he could convince, even the Arch-Mage of Winterhold himself.

Were it not for that last worthy, Drevas of Mournhold mused, the Muster might have dissolved into fisticuffs before long.

Arch-Mage Savos Aren took one look at how the Stormcloaks and Thalmor were glaring across the camps at each other, and instated himself as the Muster's official mediator; to great effect, at that. Barring the occasional drunken roughhousing around the evening fires, no blood had been shed between the various factions attending.

Personally, Drevas could scarcely believe it when little Ulfric fronted up to the Sacellum and told him that the Grey Quarter would have its sewers seen to, and certain unsavory characters would be dissuaded from harassing the Dunmer. Apparently, the bull-headed lad finally realized that the Dunmer weren't the racist goldskins, and yet… Ulfric gave him the missive from Dawnstar, and Drevas understood.

Though he was now at the fine old age of 92, the Grand Proven of the Cult of Boethiah's memory was long indeed; never would he forget the horrors of his youth, as a prisoner-slave to a Molag Bal devotee in Black Marsh, and the Dwemer ruin Elsewyr he and his wife – Gods rest her soul – were the only ones to escape from alive, out of an expedition of 103.

He alone, of all the peoples of Tamriel, could appreciate how dangerous the Falmer were, when allowed to breed unchecked.

That a young lass in the Pale would use their Chaurus against them, that the Chaurus were intelligent enough to feel hate for the Falmer… well, it tickled Drevas' paradigm something fierce. A fight would be had, and the Proven of Boethiah would attend.

It wasn't the first time – they'd fought in the Oblivion Crisis, against Dagon's little warband – but for Drevas, it would certainly be the last time. He was old; still spry enough to ensure no one would dare try to fight him, but there it was.

Not that there wasn't hope for Skyrim. It lived in the personages lining the table he was sat at, near the living quarters in Mzinchaleft, puffing on his pipe while Mjoll the Lioness reported what the inner parts of the deep were like from memory, having plumbed the ruin some years back.

Drevas, decked out in a snowy saber cat cloak and his usual ebony greaves, wristguards and boots – cuirasses were for those who sucked at Alteration – was seated on the left of Galmar Stone-Fist, Housecarl of Windhelm, a great bear of a man who was widely considered the second or third best fighter in the Hold, after Ulfric and possibly tying with Drevas himself. On the opposite end of the table, Legate Rikke – who wasn't as muscular as Mjoll but could still tear a troll's arm off, if pressed – met Galmar's displeased glare with one of her own; neither of them liked each other, for whatever reason.

Drevas assumed jilted lovers… maybe he'd suggest it to a Bard sometime.

Next to Rikke was Thalmor Justicar Olquar, who was trying to burn a hole in Drevas' head with his own glare; Drevas had ignored the idiot boy since arriving, and wasn't planning to change that. So what if Drevas destroyed one of their companies back before the War, or assassinated six members of Valenwood's nobility, who the Thalmor had bought? As Arch-Mage Aren, seated midway down the table between them, put it, it wasn't the time to dig up old grudges, but to stand and deliver against the incipient Falmer threat.

Conversely, Keeper Carcette, who was standing next to Mjoll opposite the Arch-Mage, had nearly attacked Drevas on sight. That, at least, he could understand; it was her ruddy job, rooting out and exterminating Daedra worshippers. At least she'd calmed down, after Companions Skjor and Vilkas arrived; Werewolves thought they both were, they were more loyal to Skyrim than Hircine, and ensured no one would come to blows over foolishness.

Around the table, but apart from the meeting, were other important personages: Calcelmo and his nephew, along with Sorine Jurard, were examining rubbings and prepping the sappers and pathfinders on Dwemer locking mechanisms; Katria was speaking with the Legionnaires and Stormcloak solders who'd volunteered to be part of the vanguard with Drevas and his Proven; Faralda the Wheel of Flame – though she no longer went by that moniker – was fussing over a Dunmer apprentice at the communications table, where multiple red-black banded candles were lit and prepared; messenger candles, which were paired with other candles in the ruin, as well as the Legion headquarters in Solitude, they would allow the expedition to make reports at a distance, as well as keep the bigwigs happy.

Further into the ruin, down a nearby gated hall that sloped downward, Priests and Priestesses of the Divines set up a medical area, while the Chaurus who'd been in the ruin kept to themselves… unless Khepri was present, at which point they'd cluster around the smiling woman like she was their mother.

Khepri…

Drevas had a hard time believing the girl wasn't a Devotee to Namira, at first. Then the girl opened her mouth, and everything was clear: here was a woman who was experienced in hardship, who decided to lay her weapons down and retire at a young age; yet she would stand to defend the helpless, and was benevolent to a fault.

It didn't stop Khepri from being scary as all fuck, but Drevas had met Telvanni wizards in his day. By comparison, Khepri was a ray of sunshine in a grey and clouded world.

In the end, however, it didn't matter. He had Starfall, an ebony mace fused with iron from the Scathing Bay – which he took off the aforementioned Molag Bal devotee's corpse – and he had his boys and girls. A veritable army was there in force.

Drevas felt the expedition would be a walk-over, for a moment; he crushed the feeling. Who knew what they were in for, once they penetrated Blackreach…

A moth landed on the map of Skyrim, near the marker that denoted Ulfric's position near Agna's Mill, east-northeast of the Dwemer ruin Raldbthar. Drevas stood and knocked his pipe out as another moth landed on Mjoll's shoulder.

"Going somewhere, Mournhold?" hissed the Thalmor s'wit. Drevas ignored him and looked toward the room's entrance, where soldiers from outside were slowly funneling in. Above the procession of red Legion kit, blue sashes, and purpose-made steel plate, swirling clouds of insects drifted forward steadily.

"She is here," rasped Drevas, drawing the attention of all the Muster's leaders toward the entrance, right as multiple Frostbites, laden with wicker baskets that crawled with insects, scuttled into view. It said something that most of the rank-and-file men and women smiled darkly or looked hopeful in the face of Khepri's swarm, but they'd had over a week of exposure to the woman's ability, and she'd stayed the previous night in her tent outside the ruin.

Then came the Chaurus, five Hunters with scarves around their shoulders, with another Companion loping in their midst.

"Farkas, there you are!" called Vilkas in welcome, the taller Nord smiling as he approached the table.

But none of the rest of the Muster spoke. Even the two Companions choked in fear.

For, walking behind Khepri and Jarl Skald – who was talking earnestly with the bug-controller – was… something other.

It stood taller than any man, and was covered in thick-seeming bronze plates. Its legs were long, and ended in two sharp toes; its stride was… feminine, to Drevas' eyes, with a slight sway of the hips. Their arms were also long, the top set anyway, ending in dexterous-looking claws, while the lower set were just a pair of mantis-like limbs that folded over the creature's groin-area. The head of the creature was crowned with two large bull-like horns, and three smaller, thinner horns behind it. The face was not of Man, Mer, or Beastfolk, but one that reminded the veteran adventurer of… a Chaurus. Four copper-green wings and a stinger sprouting from the thing's backside underlined the fact: here before them was a Chaurus unheard of or seen in living memory.

Leaving Jarl Skald near the communications area, Khepri approached the table with the massive creature at her back; she was not smiling, though her eyes alighted with small interest when she spotted Mjoll. To the Keeper, she asked, "A new addition, Keeper Carcette?"

"Khepri the Beekeeper, meet Mjoll the Lioness, out of Riften." The large woman nodded to Khepri and gave the thin woman's right arm a pointed glance. Khepri only smiled. "She's delved this ruin before, and has helped us map out the lower levels with the assistance of the Dunmeri sappers."

"A pleasure, Lioness." Khepri looked at the sketch, then immediately pointed at a spot near the elevator the Muster was to use to enter the depths of Mzinchaleft, "There's an alcove, here. Multiple young Chaurus are being forced to breed there. When they die of exhaustion, they are force-fed to other Chaurus."

"Are there no Hunters in the deep to assist us?" asked the Legate, who kept glancing at the huge being standing stoically behind Khepri, "Also, just what is…"

"You have all heard of Skitter, I believe." Khepri commented truthfully, not looking up from the map. "Skitter, meet the people who've come to liberate your people. Everyone, meet Skitter, the first Chaurus Praetorian to live since the Dwemer vanished."

"Not the first." Drevas grunted, drawing Khepri's gaze. He stroked his wispy beard and growled, "Ran into one like that, but smaller, some… oh, must've been sixty years ago, in Elsewyr."

The Praetorian clicked her mandibles, looking at the insect-master; Khepri's head turned slightly, and she shrugged, "Well, I suppose it is possible, in areas with lower Falmer presence and more hiding places." Drevas nodded agreeably; the girl did know her Chaurus. "As to your concern, Legate Rikke, there are seventy Hunters and three hundred common Chaurus in the area beneath us, along with one three Reapers; these last will be dealt with by Skitter herself, so the rest of the Chaurus turn more readily on the Falmer. In this way, the way forward will be eased. Falmer are at… around five hundred, give or take twenty of the wretched things, most of them clustered here," she indicated the second hall, which held a switchback bridge; Drevas figured it might be a marketplace, "Many of the Chaurus are gathered there as well."

"That room is an archer's paradise to defend." Mjoll admitted with a saddened frown.

"Well, it's good that we're not going to cede the higher ground, is it?" calmly stated Savos Aren, a smile touching the old wizard's lips. "Faralda will join the frontline with the Grand Proven, and most of the Legionaries have archery training. Between us and the Chaurus, we'll turn that hall into a Falmer mass grave."

The Legate nodded, though she had that look about her, of someone who was on the verge of a great storm. "My boys and girls do have that training, but five hundred… that's more than double what was there two days ago."

"Doesn't matter the numbers, but how fast you can run counter to their moves." Drevas taught the young'ins stoically, adjusting the enchanted rings on his middle fingers – one for magic to ease his Destruction and Alteration abilities, the other for stamina and strength regeneration. Both would see much use in the coming hours, he wagered, "So long as me and mine are dutifully covered, we'll turn that second hall into a killing ground for the Falmer."

"Jarl Skald brought more arrows," pointed out the new Companion, Farkas, "and a group called the Dawnguard, vampire hunters with crossbows, just showed. Another ten hands, plus a former Vigilant, name of Isran."

"I know him." Sighed the Keeper, though she looked welcoming. "He'll have to go in with the second wave-"

"I thought we were using the second wave to put ladders on that wall," Galmar growled and stabbed a meaty, gauntleted finger at the map of Mzinchaleft, "so the little bastards don't flank us."

"They will try regardless." Khepri intoned with saintlike calmness. "Which is why Skitter will keep them busy in the third hall, with any Chaurus who can fight and aren't in the second hall. The Dawnguard and the ladders can go down at the same time; I'll have my spiders climb down behind the second wave with the potions and any healers brave enough to ride them."

"And when they spring from their holes and flank us regardless?" sneered the Thalmor, making a decent point, in Drevas' estimation, the bastard. "If there are 500 here, after all, what does that say about Blackreach?"

And then… Khepri smiled a smile that sent a chill down Drevas' spine. It was just a slight curve to her lips, but the look in her eyes, the way she didn't look up from the papers… it unsettled the old Mer.

"The Chaurus have all the tunnels leading to Blackreach; as of today, this ruin is the Falmer's only way to access the surface." Khepri gestured at the map of Skyrim, a few moths leaving her bear cloak to settle on the haphazard lines she'd drawn there, four days ago, "So our primary objective will be easier; when we arrive, the Chaurus in the tunnels will flank the Falmer and root them out of their holes. Blackreach is large, yes, but we have the numbers and the talent to clear it. As for the Falmer below us… my swarm is big enough to deal with their tunnels. You won't be flanked."

"I'd almost feel sorry for the Falmer, were it not for our people's history with the creatures." Jarl Skald grumbled, stepping up to the table between Khepri and Galmer, that Houscarl, Bori, at the Jarl's shoulder, dressed in steel plate. The Jarl looked around the table with a challenging glare, "They have kidnapped and murdered countless innocents, and have been a plague on this fair country for far too long. That it takes a young crippled beekeeper to rile them up," the Jarl scoffed and smiled at said young woman, who ducked her head, the Praetorian clicking its mandibles in a mockery of laughter.

It was funny to Drevas, too. Beekeeper, pah. If the girl had been born 200 years ago, Dagon would've spent the rest of his existence jumping at shadows, such was Khepri's potential for destruction. 'Thank Boethiah she's on our side.'

Then Legate Rikke sighed, drawing everyone's attention, "Before the Legion can fully commit, Miss Khepri, my General would like to know what the Chaurus will do, once this is over."

"Fair." Khepri replied simply, cutting off whatever retort might've been aired by the other Nords at the table. Then she looked at the Chaurus standing behind her, "Well, Skitter?"

The Praetorian looked at Khepri, then turned all eight eyes to examine everyone and thing around them; after a patient moment, where the Thalmor dolt looked increasingly annoyed…

Skitter, the Chaurus Praetorian, clicked her mandibles, hissed, and jittered her wings.

"…zzzPeace. Alwaysszz."

Drevas was glad he wasn't chewing on his pipe. It might've fallen on the ground. The news was excellent, of course, but what in the hells.

Khepri blinked, looking quite surprised herself, and then spoke blandly at the Legate, "Okay, I didn't teach her to do that, but will you accept that as an answer?"

Several people faked coughing – Drevas just grinned – while the Legate just sighed and nodded. The look of stupefaction on the Justicar's face was priceless.

Still, there was business to get to, so Drevas clapped his hands and rubbed the together, "Well, now that we've settled where all our factions stand, shall we begin?" he gestured at the elevator shaft, and spoke quickly, "First wave will have myself, Skitter, Katria, Faralda, Skjor and Mjoll, along with thirty Legionaries with shields, twenty Stormcloaks, five Thalmor, and all of my Proven; we'll secure the first hall and pave the way for the second wave, the Companions, Legate Rikke and Galmar leading the ladder teams, plus the Dawnguard and Khepri's second swarm wave, into position before helping the first wave consolidate the second hall…"

And so it went, other members of the council making additions or corrections and occasionally barking an order to a messenger. Outside, the camp followers – five hundred of the two thousand souls who answered the call – began sending out their wares: potions, enchanted weapons and jewelry, and plain simple armor.

After a half-hour of planning, Drevas left the table, shrugging off his cloak as he walked toward the elevator; quite a few of those he passed stopped briefly, in their readying for the first assaults on the Falmer's domain, at seeing the patchwork scars and tattoos littering his muscular body.

He ignored them all. The God-Ancestor had tasked him: make the Falmer bleed for their impiety.

Drevas would.

"Right, you shits!" he yelled once the elevator – and the first wave's rank-and file – came into view, drawing Starfall from his belt and grinning, "Whoever wants songs named after them, get your arse ready! There's a lot of Falmer in need of good ol' Tamrielic justice, and we're here to deliver!"

Drevas' Proven cheered loudest, of course, but he was just the opener; each of the leaders addressed their men and women – except Khepri; he was certain her forces knew what was what without any pretty words – and then the Priests spoke the benediction of the Nine (they said Eight, but everyone saw the winces).

Minutes later, the crowded elevator descended into the deep, the walls covered with clouds of insects and Skitter's bulk as they all went to battle.