A/n : Yes, I'm back with a new story! One which I have been promising for some time – I had wanted to do some work on The Redemption of Sulva, but it has been proving difficult to get the whole thing plotted (and it needs fully plotting before I can put finger to keyboard!) So, I have begun this in a idle afternoon – the long-promised “wolf” story (if you read ANYWHERE in fanfiction that Edmund has wolves as a bodyguard etc. - that was my idea initially).

This story is the fleshing out of a lot of the history implied in King Edmund's Crusade, and readers of that may recognize characters from there. However, this story stands totally alone – in fact, reading that story first might spoil a few surprises!

I own nothing but my Ocs, the story and the words. C. owns Narnia. Palomnus, Alpin and Carrack are inventions of Almyra.

The Call of the Western Wild

Prologue : The Wolf Cometh

Around the ivory towers of Cair Paravel, Winter gave vent to her rage at dying and her usurpation by her chit of a daughter with the final great snowstorm of that season. For one hundred years she had ruled and now – after a brief defeat at the hands of the maiden and the dam – she had returned. But only for her appointed time, and her anger at that was plain to see. Ice and hail and wind and freezing rain battered the walls of the city, smearing the fine leaded glass of the High King's chambers into surreal kaleidoscopes of leaping gray. Outside, the snow was feet deep, yards in places where it had drifted, and the very air was as thick as the woolen blankets wrapping the feet and shoulders of the shivering Dryads and Naiads huddling around roaring fires for warmth.

Peter, High King over all Kings in Narnia, glanced up from the remains of his morning tea at his aide Palomnus. “A messenger?” he asked the graying Faun – he did not know if the gray in his hair and beard and, yes, even the fur he still called “leggings” after nearly a whole year in Narnia was down to age, or natural coloration, or perhaps the horrors of the Everwinter. The King cocked a weather-eye towards the smeared window. “By the Lion, Palomnus – not even the Centaurs are out in this, and even my Gryphons are in their aeries.” Even as he used that possessive-pronoun, he winced inwardly – they were only his Gryphons because the eldest and wisest of them had come howling from the far north with a pledge on their beaks and an interpretation of what was written in the skies; he claimed no sovereignty over them by right nor by anything he had done. His Gryphons, indeed – he might as well say that he owned Susan and Lucy.

Or Edmund.

“Just so, sire,” said Palomnus exactly, with a slightly-stiff courtly bow from his waist. “The messenger is a wolf, sire.” Peter's head snapped from the window, really looking at the Faun now. The aide bent his head and lowered his eyes deferentially.

“Bring Rapine here,” Peter ordered crisply.

oOo

In the great courtyard of the Cair the wrath of Winter was deflected by the high, echoing walls and so there was almost peace and quiet in the open space. Or, rather, there would have been peace and quiet had it not been for the shrieks and laughter of the two Queens of Narnia, and the noises of their canine companion, as they romped in the snow.

Laughing and breathless, Queen Susan stooped to gather a snowball together, wadding it solidly into a tight ball and drawing back her arm for the throw. The range was minimal, the target perfect, she had all the time in the world.

She deliberately missed her sister's ear by six inches, and then shrieked and giggled as wet, loosely-packed snow splattered against her chest. Lucy stooped again, gathered more snow and hurled it vaguely in her general direction. Around the two girls, Rapine yelped and barked, leaping and jumping, jaws open and tongue panting, tail high and eyes bright.

But those jaws were lean and square, studded with inch-long fangs. That tail was the punctuation mark on a long sentence of iron-gray fur, and those eyes were topaz chips set behind a nose that could track a foe a hundred nights across the ice.

Lucy finally managed to pack a decent snowball and drew back her hand for the throw. Rapine jumped up and caught her wrist in his jaws. With an infinitesimal fraction of the power in them that could chew through steel, he gripped and twisted. The snowball span out of her hand and she tumbled into the foot-deep snow, giggling and spitting ice. By the time she had wiped the snow from her eyes, Susan was offering her a hand up and suggesting they into the castle proper and have a hot chocolate. The younger girl's eyes lit up at the prospect of her own personal Turkish Delight, and then she paused as she saw Peter's aide standing very upright beside the steaming chalices.

“Your Majesties, Lord Rapine,” Palomnus said carefully, “the High King requests the presence of his lordship.”

Suddenly, and for reasons that they couldn't fathom, Lucy wasn't thirsty anymore and Susan was suddenly cold.

oOo

“He says he is an emissary of the Lord of the Western Wild, your majesty.”

Peter turned to allow Palomnus to clip his cloak on, watching distractedly as Susan waited patiently with his gauntlets in her hands and Lucy fiddled with Rhindon. “Careful with that,” he said quietly. He faced the wolf. “Lord Rapine?” The wolf's teeth were bared in a dreadful smile.

“First things first, sire,” the wolf growled, “I am no Lord – I am a soldier.” His voice was deep and resonant, with accent qualities that Peter found it hard to place. Oreius had called it a rhotic accent, with intervocalic alveolar flapping. That Centaur was far too clever, and Peter would have called him here had not something told him Rapine could tell him more – even if he did not admit it. “And secondly, I know no more of this so-called Lord of the Western Wild than you do. The legends of the Western Wild speak of a civilization of wolves that lived there – does it surprise you so very much that a wolf is sent as the emissary of their lord?”

Peter flexed his fingers inside the gauntlets Susan had just strapped on and accepted Rhindon and his swordbelt from a contrite and finger-sucking Lucy. “I do not speak of legends, Rapine – I have little time for them. I speak of the one who held the title for the last one hundred years.” The wolf shrugged.

“I would say that Jadis claimed the title, sire – they would not have acclaimed her it.” It was telling, thought Peter, that Rapine called the other wolves them – although the conclusion he drew from that was perhaps not the one Rapine would have wanted drawn, if indeed he wanted one drawn at all. “She was no more the Lord of the Western Wild than she was Queen of Narnia.” It was intriguing that Rapine seemed to have very definite ideas about at least this portion of the legends. “This Lord may very well be the rightful holder of the title.”

“Or someone capitalizing on the legends,” Peter suggested. Rapine shrugged.

“What do you advise, Rapine?” asked Susan. The wolf turned to her.

“Advise, Your Majesty?” he growled, “I advise that the High King meets with this emissary – and that he keeps that wolf-killing blade in its sheath as long as he can.” Susan smiled indulgently, Lucy giggled around her finger, and Palomnus coughed at the impropriety of it all – but Peter was unmoved. “Whomever this Lord of the Western Wild is, his Imperial Majesty will have to deal with him one way or another.”

Peter's lips – red amid the paleness of his skin – twisted into a wry grin. “I am not in the habit of killing messengers, Rapine, if that is what you mean.” He very deliberately tied a peace-knot around the hilt of his sword and set his crown straighter on his brow. “But what if this new Lord is a wolf?”

“Then he's a wolf, Peter,” said Susan with a degree of exasperation. “He's a Talking Beast of Narnia and you've sworn to be good lord to them all.” She turned to face Rapine. “From all that Rapine has said I would be surprised if he were not.”

“You know what I mean,” said Peter. “What if he is a former servant of the Witch? One who did her bidding? What then?” Rapine looked up at his King.

“Then the Crown of Narnia is empowered by the will of Aslan to enact such justice as it sees fit, by their lights to give them their just deserts as Aslan would do, sire,” the wolf said smoothly. Peter nodded, and then looked at his sisters.

“Susan, I need you with me. Lucy – bandage your finger or at least stop sucking it.” Lucy looked petulant for a moment and then pulled her finger from her mouth, placing the scratch over the open neck of her diamond cordial bottle and upending the flask. Peter continued as if he hadn't seen her do it. “I need you both dressed for a royal audience.” Susan bowed her head and offered her hand to Lucy, about to lead her out of the room. “Palomnus, see to our guest's comfort and inform him that we will meet with him within the hour in the Great Hall.” The Faun bowed deeply to the three monarchs and he and the wolf withdrew. Susan dropped an elegant curtsy, followed shortly by Lucy, and made to leave. “I wish Edmund were here,” Peter threw naked into the conversation. Susan stopped dead in her tracks, catching Lucy by the shoulder and preventing her from leaving.

“Why?” asked the younger sister, and then realized what she had said. “I'm sorry – I didn't mean it like it sounded. But,” she continued, trying to articulate what she wanted to ask, “why?” Susan sank to her knees beside her sister.

“Because he's the diplomat, Lucy – he's the best diplomat in Narnia. He's the Duke of the Lantern Waste and that borders the Western Wild. He's the most knowledgeable about the history of Narnia and the surrounding lands, he's persuasive and he's charming. And – Aslan forgive me – he knows more about the Witch and her followers than any of us.” She looked up at Peter, expecting him to agree. But all he did was shake his head and offer his hands to his sisters.

“No,” he said, “it's not that. We're just not a family without him.” Susan closed her emerald eyes in sadness and pressed her brother's hand to her ivory cheek. Lucy sniffled and grabbed one of Peter's armored fingers in her hand. “All of that is true – but even if it were not, if Edmund was a feckless idiot who couldn't hold a sword or a pen, I'd still want him with me. With us. He's our brother – why is he a King if not to be with us when we meet an emissary from a foreign land?”

“Do you blame him? For not being here, for going?” asked Susan quietly. Peter shook his head.

“By Aslan, no,” the High King laughed. “Edmund left at the beginning of Winter on his own journey – and even I could not have dissuaded him, and I did not have the stomach to order him not to. He went for his own reasons, and who am I to stand in selfish safety in Cair Paravel for a harsh season while he exorcises his own demons and say that he should have not done it? This lies with me.” He smiled as Susan and Lucy squeezed his hands. “With us.”

He sighed and disengaged from them, running his hands through his hair and threatening to dislodge his crown. “But that is another reason I would want him here – because you know as well as I that this emissary could bear a ransom demand, for it was to the wolves and the West that he went at the beginning of Winter.”

oOo

The Great Hall of Cair Paravel was silent despite the dozens of creatures standing at attention in serried ranks on the mosaic marble floor. Through the great eastern windows the lazy Winter sunlight streamed, being sliced to shreds on gleaming armor, fur and feathers of a thousands colors, and the leaves and branches of the Dryads. On a dais in front of the western wall hung with peacock feathers four thrones hewn from solid chunks of marble rested – one conspicuously empty.

On the other three thrones, the sovereign monarchs of Narnia sat – Peter gleaming in red and silver, Susan blazing in gold and black armor and Lucy sparkling like the the sun on ice-crusted evergreens. As the emissary walked through the aisle left by their Narnian subjects, Lucy made to rise – but Peter checked her with a single fingertip.

The emissary was a wolf – of that there was no doubt – and, had it not been for the comforting presence of Rapine in the castle since the fall of the Witch, certain memories might have been too much for Susan. As it was, the very air thickened with concern and nervousness, and hands tightened on the hilts of swords and on the enchanted Horn. The only creature in the room who looked wholly comfortable was the wolf himself.

He was large and powerful, with massive shoulders and great spatulate paws that would bear his muscular weight on the top of powder snow. Larger and bulkier than Rapine – who sat patiently amid the ranks of the Narnians, although under no illusions that the emissary could smell him for what he was – the wolf's body narrowed to a taunt waist and flared out into powerful hindquarters. Yellow eyes flashed in the light of sconced torches as he padded, his shoulders moving with casual power, towards the dais.

It might have been the wound on his shoulder that had caused Lucy to want to stand, for she would have cured the world if she could. As he drew closer, the injury resolved itself into a set of claw-marks, recently-inflicted and beginning to crust and scab over. They looked damnably-like wolf-claws, and it was only Peter who noticed that the spread of them was perfect for those massive paws now spotting melting snow over the floor of his Great Hall. His distraction at his own temerity in saying his again caused him to miss the brand – a six-branched snowflake – that the scars partially obscured.

Abruptly, a good ten yards from the dais, the wolf stopped dead. “Are the kittens really necessary?” he asked. His voice was similar to Rapine's, but even – and this was the only way to describe it – more so.

Before any answer could be made, throaty roars burst from hidden places in the Great Hall and five narrow-waisted, feline, feminine shapes leaped from seemingly-nowhere and landed on the floor, claws extended for grip and with the harsh, discordant noise of a thousand nails down a hundred blackboards echoing through the air. Narnians scattered as the five cats slid to a stop on the ice-smooth marble and began to pace menacingly around the wolf, their heads, bodies and tails describing complex, curving orbits. “Is the puppy really necessary?” snarled Elikolani, the black panther who headed Susan's personal bodyguard.

The wolf remained as calm as a stone – he continued to face the dais and addressed his remarks to the monarchs despite the five massive cats prowling around him. Even though the huge tiger alone outweighed him thrice, his voice was as assured as ever. “I come here as an emissary of a neighboring power with whom no declaration of peace or war has been made – I bear no arms, needs must you have such protection?” He inclined his head in the direction of the cats.

Peter might have ordered them to stand down – but they were Susan's troops, and so it fell to her to do so. And she knew that Elikolani knew precisely when and where to push, and when and how to back down. And so she remained silent as the cats continued to circle.

“Bear no arms?” purred Carmit the red-puma. “You still have your claws.” The wolf gave a deep-throated chuffing that might have passed for a laugh in lupine circles.

“I can't hide them,” he laughed. “You know what they say; if you want something done, send a wolf, if you want someone done in, send a cat.” There was a moment of shocked silence as the cats bristled and their tails fluffed, and then all five of them began to laugh – a weird sound for those not inured to it – and the tension was broken.

“Oh, we like him!” “Certainly, he's funny!” “He can stay.” “Oh, definitely.” Impudently, just before the cats disentangled their looping orbits from each other like a next of snakes coming apart, Elikolani pursed her lips and made a passable attempt at the human action of blowing a kiss.

“I'm married, I'm afraid,” growled the wolf. Elikolani turned to him.

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry,” she said, contrite. The wolf made the incongruous chuff sound again.

“That's quite alright, you needn't apologize.” The panther purred with amusement.

“You misunderstand,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear, “I was talking about your wife.”

As the rest of the Narnian court began to laugh and the wolf's eyes narrowed, Peter raised his hand for silence. “Emissary,” he began, his voice carrying well but him hating the high edge that always came into it when he was flustered, “I am High King Peter of Narnia, and these are my Royal sisters Queen Susan and Queen Lucy. Might I have your name and ask your business with the crown of Narnia?” The wolf took a few steps forward and then lowered his head to the floor, partially rolling over to expose his throat. He stood and straightened.

“Your Imperial Majesty High King over all Kings of Narnia, Lord of Cair Paravel, Emperor of the Lone Islands,” he began flawlessly, “and no-less Royal sisters of the High King, Queens of Narnia and Empresses of the Lone Islands, my name is Drax. I am an emissary from the Lord of the Western Wild – and I bring a message from my master.” It was perhaps the wolf's accent which made everything he said sound like a threat, or it was perhaps his raw power and obvious skill at war, or maybe yet his complete and total composure in the face of a potentially-hostile court. Regardless, Peter steepled his fingers and waited for the inevitable.

Here comes the ransom demand, he mused to himself. He was already half-way through rehearsing his response to it by the time he remembered he needed to ask what the message was. The wolf bowed his head again and spoke.

“The Lord of the Western Wild is encamped a day's march from here.” A flurry of consternation and concern, as if Elikolani had visited the Parliament of Owls again, flew around the room. The wolf could read the expressions on their faces as plainly as his wife could read the pictograms of her people – a day's march? How many troops? Where exactly? How did he get here? Only a day? Peter raised his hand for stillness.

“This is your message, Drax?” He glanced around the room, catching and holding a few of his captains in his sapphire gaze. “What is this? A boast? A challenge?” The wolf shook his head.

“Neither, sire – it is a statement. The Lord of the Western Wild is encamped a day's march from this city, and he wishes to meet with your Imperial Majesties. I have been sent to arrange such a summit.” Peter nodded slowly.

“Will he come alone?” asked Elikolani abruptly. The wolf answered the question, but continued to face the High King.

“He will not, sire – as you yourself would doubtless be, he will be accompanied by his loyal retainers and subjects.” The panther was not about to be silenced.

“Wolves like yourself?” Drax finally turned to face Elikolani.

“No wolf is like another,” he growled. “We are all unique creations and we are not interchangeable, kitten.” The cats might have begun to snarl and hiss, but Peter spoke over them.

“Drax, we will gladly meet with your master – for doubtless we have much to discuss,” he added with a sinking heart. “Your master and his retinue are assured safe passage to and from Cair Paravel so long as he behaves peaceably toward all Narnians.”

“Even the cats?” Drax asked quizzically. Peter smiled and gently laughed.

“Most especially the cats,” he chuckled.

oOo

The next twenty-four hours passed slowly, and with an itching sense of waiting. Susan and Lucy divested themselves of their armor and made half-hearted attempts to restart the snowball fight. But Rapine was with Peter and Oreius and neither of their hearts were really in it. Lucy padded to the kitchens and had Tumnus make her toast and sardines, and Susan returned to her chambers and read and re-read the letters her younger brother had written to her over the sixth months of campaigning after the defeat of the Witch and before he had left on his personal odyssey to the West.

Peter closeted himself with the wolf and the Centaur – trying to determine what could be done if it came to . . . whatever it might come to. As Rapine never tired of pointing out, and Oreius gently stated, there was no certainty whatsoever here. This could be a ransom, an offer of friendship, of alliance, a warning about borders, or nothing of the sort. Rapine pointed out that the wolf had addressed Peter respectfully and had offered his throat to the High King, Oreius pointed out that one did not march into a foreign power and halt a day from from their capital and have it seem entirely innocent.

Caught between these two conflicting positions and full of his own conflicts, Peter did not find much sleep that night.

The morning found the court of the Cair prepared for the arrival of the delegation from the Western Wild. A banquet of delicacies had been prepared – together with not a few recently-butchered carcasses of deer and sheep for the wolves that all in the Cair thought they would soon be paying host to. Armorers had spent most of the night polishing plate and scrubbing chain, seamstresses repairing frayed stitching and leatherworkers tightening buckles. Since she had awoken, Susan had been attended by a small army of Dryads and Naiads who fussed around her and enhanced her already formidable beauty to something that could be scaled and stand as a monument.

The delegation was due to arrive at the tenth hour – a fact which made the skin of many in the Cair crawl. For the wolf would have had to return to his master a day's march away, and then the Lord of the Western Wild would have to travel to the Cair. Even if the wolf ran and the Lord of the Western Wild was extraordinarily hardy, he would have to travel through the howling and ice-tipped night. Rapine maintained that he could have done it – but that only made the determination of their visitor all the more stark.

The lookouts gave the cry a few minutes before the appointed hour, as from the forest at the edge of the clearing that the Cair sat in a group of figures appeared. The news was relayed to the monarchs – a group of a dozen wolves and one figure that looked human, wrapped in a heavy cloak and hood and moving with casual ease through the deep snow.

Peter and his sisters sat on their thrones and considered – it was a well-known fact that there were humans in the realms surrounding Narnia – Archenland, Telmar, Calormen and the Islands – but humans in the Western Wild were unknown. Of course, that did not mean they were impossible – but a human Lord of the Western Wild was unheard of. The only non-wolf to hold it throughout history was Jadis – and she had looked human. Peter beckoned Oreius to him.

“General,” he whispered, “if this Lord comes with a ransom demand for our royal brother, then I will not allow them to leave this castle with their heads on their shoulders. As our prisoners they stay, or as our foes they die – do I make myself clear?” Oreius bowed his craggy head.

“To hear is to obey, your Majesty,” the Centaur said carefully. He licked his lips. “But I am honor-bound to point out to your Majesty that he promised . . .” Peter cut him off.

“Taking a King of Narnia hostage is not a peaceable act, Oreius – I will not appear weak before this wolflord. If he has shown his claws, then I shall show Narnian steel.” Peter had set his jaw on his clenched fists then and Oreius deemed it wise to not continue.

The Lord of the Western Wild and his lupine cohorts arrived at the great Gate of the Cair, and walked through the arch of swords held aloft by the Centaur gatewards in silence. Barely seeming to need to follow the guide sent to bring them to the presence of the monarchs, Drax – standing at the right hand of his master – deferred the offer of food and the chance to freshen up before meeting with them. Shocked and horrified by such a breach of protocol – for all should wash before seeing the High King – Palomnus was only silenced by the topaz stare of the dozen wolves. With his hooves clattering as much with nervousness as the cold, the Faun lead the silent Lord of the Western Wild and his companions to the Great Hall.

Peter looked up as the party walked through the colonnade on the northern side of the Great Hall, a seemingly rag-tag bunch of wolves with ruffled hair, snow still resting on the outer layers of their fur, uncombed and ragged. They did not march, but rather moved with the raw wildness of their kind, their muzzles pointing unwavering forward but their yellow eyes flickering from side to side. Peter recognized the massive Drax as one of the wolves flanking the human, and saw that the one on the other side of him was an almost blue-gray with juvenile-blue eyes.

There was very little prepossessing about the Lord of the Western Wild – he was dressed in a long cloak of rough-spun wool lined with what looked like rabbit fur. For a second, Peter wondered why he was not wearing wolf hide, and then he realized that for this man to do so would be like him making his saddles from Centaur hide. In fact, Peter corrected himself, for any man to wear the fur of these wolves would be murder, or at the very least a terrible affront to an enemy in war.

The cloak rose in a heavy hood which obscured his features, and it was drawn around him so that only his hands and feet were visible – extremities which were encased in well-made leather boots and gloves, heavy and elegantly stitched, cured to burned-butter buckskin. Within the confines of the cloak, there was the suggestion of armor of a similar style, with faint yellow pinpoints glowing like the eyes of an army of wolves resting within his chest. With a faint clatter as if stones rattled against each other, the figure knelt smoothly before the monarchs of Narnia. Unnoticed by either Peter or Lucy, Susan's breath caught in her throat for a moment. “Your Majesties,” the Lord of the Western Wild said. His voice was cultured, with elements of the accents of the wolves, and almost rusty from lack of use.

Peter found his own voice before his sisters. “My dear Lord of the Western Wild, we welcome you to Narnia and to Cair Paravel. I'm the High King Peter of Narnia and these are my royal sisters, Queen Susan and Queen Lucy.” He paused. “My Lord, I do not require even my own subjects to kneel before me – please rise.”

Smoothly, as if he were lifted by invisible strings, the Lord of the Western Wild stood, lifting his head first, followed by his shoulders and body, uncurling as he straightened his legs. He stood perhaps an inch shorter than Susan, and a clear head less than Peter. Slender gloved hands reached under from under the cloak and grabbed the two hems, sweeping it back with the same elegant economy of movement, revealing his lean body to be garbed in leather armor that – but for the fringes of leather tassels and clattering carved amber beads – Susan recognized as her own work. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands as he reached up and drew back his hood.

He was young – a few years Peter's junior and only slightly older than Lucy. His face was pale from the cold and smirched here and there with dirt, and his dark hair was ragged. Around his brow was a thin golden circlet and his eyes flashed gray like the sea.

“Well-met, brother,” said Edmund Pevensie.

A/n : If you wish to see what the armor of the Lord of the Western Wild looks like, go to my profile page, click on the “website” for King Edmund's Crusade and then select “Illustrations” and “Character Pictures”. Scroll down and there is a picture of Edmund wearing it.