"Throw the Molotov cocktails! Don't let them climb up!"
The defending officer's roar rang out again. Several defending soldiers hefted Molotov cocktails crudely made from clay jars, their mouths stuffed with Cloth Strips soaked in grease. After lighting them, they hurled them with all their strength toward the densest cluster of figures below the cliff!
"Crash! Boom—!"
The clay jars shattered, and the incendiary mixture of grease and a small amount of gunpowder erupted at once, becoming streams of fire that flowed down the rock face! The flames licked at the stone—and devoured the unfortunate Sauron soldiers splashed by them.
The stench of scorched flesh rose into the sky, mingling with gunsmoke. The ignited soldiers let out inhuman shrieks, twisting madly like human torches before finally falling in unbearable agony.
The firelight cast this one-sided slaughter into even sharper relief, completely cutting off any possibility for the Saurons to climb amid the chaos or strike back.
The instant the torches flared to life, Bolk relied on beastlike instinct to press himself tightly into a narrow crevice recessed in the cliff face.
Bullets whizzed past above his head and alongside him, striking the rocks and spraying sparks and stone chips.
Fire from the Molotov cocktails flowed not far below him, and scorching waves of heat crashed into his face.
He could clearly hear the dying screams of his comrades all around him—above, below, and beside him—the muffled groans of those struck by bullets, and the bone-chilling sounds of falling. Every scream that abruptly cut off meant the death of a brother who had once drunk deeply with him and sworn they would live and die together.
It was over.
It was all over.
They hung on the cliff, neither touching sky nor ground—perfect living targets.
Fight? They could not fight back