"Norman, don't do this!"
As the Witch Hunters rushed toward the interception point, Porter was still desperately trying to persuade his brother, who had already resolved to die. He spoke in a pleading tone:
"You can do it. You can start a new life. There are plenty of houses on my farm—dammit! You can move in and live with us. There are only a few of us left in our squad! Candel is dead, Old Luke is dead, Schuder is dead. We can't lose you too. Amber will chew my head off.
Don't do this! I'm begging you.
We can find a better way."
To this, Norman merely marched forward in silence, until they spotted that transport column advancing through the swamp.
A full fifty-odd wagons, drawn by rothé, were packed to the brim with crates of dwarven explosives. Like a black, hideous serpent, the column was about to bring even more disaster to the Maginot Line. The sheer size of the transport force silenced every Witch Hunter who laid eyes on it, and that didn't even count the massive contingent of Bloodscar clan guards flanking the convoy. They could see numerous hunting priests riding in small war chariots; just the fluttering gnoll battle standards told them these were elites from the Bloodscar clan's vassals.
Rather than calling it a transport column, it was practically a major reinforcement force sent by the Bloodscar clan to the front lines.
And this was only half of them; the other half had been dispatched toward the direction of Crimean Fortress, a clear indication of just how much destructive power Hurgersen's impending decisive battle against the defense line would hold.
Old Porter could no longer bring himself to say words like "find a better way."
He was a veteran.
He knew that once such