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The Story, conveniently presented here:
Turn 1: Malkier's Fate
From my roost at the peak of the northwest tower I can see the soldiers spilling out of the north gate. From fifty feet in the air the golden mail garbed soldiers look like white wine spilling down the hill that Malkier sits on, rolling rapidly down into the valley of tangled lakes. The sun's reflection off their coats of gold is blinding. I am focused on the horizon though, arrow nocked and one eye on my enemy.
A few thousand Trollocs wait in the valley, standing in rows just beyond Herot's Crossing, looking like great lumps of coal in their black fur and dirty gray armor. Crisp, dry snow blankets the valley. There should be children running around on the thick, iced over lakes this time of year, but instead great gashes of blood taint the ice and the snow around it. Human and Trolloc alike lie fallen on the field of battle, their corpses well preserved by the icy nights and chilling days. The shadowspawn have been held at Herot's crossing for a week now by Malkier's home guard. I am not sure they will be held back much longer.
Two months ago now it was that tens of thousands of Malkier's finest soldiers abandoned their camps in the blight and their fortifications on the border, and turned inward to support Breyan's attempt to gain the throne for her son, Isam. Breyan is to blame, but there is little solace in blaming a mad woman. Any of several dozen commanders of the soldiers who defected should have known the folly they committed. Lord Cowin Gemallan, who aided Breyan, should surely have known the consequences. Before they even reached Malkier, Breyan's forces were attacked from behind and Trollocs painted the rivers and lakes with their blood. Now Malkier faces a scourge brought by Breyan's foolish pride.
As the column marches down the hill, we provide cover fire from our roosts high above the city, struggling to cast a few arrows out into the Trolloc throngs. We would like to provoke them to break their ranks; rush ahead and be forced to attack across the narrows of Herot's Crossing or fall into the icy lakes surrounding it. They won't. The fades that accompany them lead the siege on the city, and they would be content to allow twenty thousand Trollocs die from archer's arrows while they slowly starve the city. Our generals play a game: advancing and then retreating to enrage the Trollocs and kill the few we can. We inflict five deaths on their side for every one on ours, but the numbers we face are far larger than we can hope to defeat. Soulblighter's forces know that this is just a waiting game: a matter of time before we must launch an offensive or risk losing our last supply lines from the south to raiding parties.
Malkier has stood for centuries, and we cannot imagine falling now. Messengers have been sent to each of the borderland nations requesting much needed reinforcements. The army's barracks and training yards overflow with recruits from Malkier's citizenry. Most promising of all are rumors that the new Amyrlin seat, Noane Masadim Aes Sedai, may also render us aid. The golden crane will not give itself up easily. Tai'shar Malkier!
Trinyn Deradies, soldier under the Golden Crane
8th day of Jumara, 951 NE
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