The Dwarven steamers surged across the gentle tide, their huge steam engines propelling them with speed not often matched by the feats of Man. A hundred Dwarves, armed in mail, and carrying gun and axe, occupied each of them. They were fierce battle-brothers, and each of them thought themselves a great warrior.

The Orcs, ragged in their formations, but eager in their lust for battle, had swarmed the stony beaches of Blood Bay. They jeered, and roared their songs of war. Many of them danced, arm in arm, filled with the euphoria they tended to get on the verge of battle.

They had in their midst, a series of great war machines. Huge catapults, indeed, pointing seawards towards the Dwarven fleet. Though they were crude, their payload was more than enough to sink a steamer.

"Grok 'ta!" roared the Orcs in unison, the countless thousands of voices lending to each other, to create a thundering orchestra of death.

And then the catapults released.

Flaming balls streamed across the night sky, trailing smoke and embers. The Dwarven steamers, many of them mounted with cannon, fired back. The big, bulky iron tubes erupted into flame, and soon, the Dwarven fleet became masked by a fog crafted purely from ignited gun powder.

The catapults' volley fell in a disorganised scattering of death. Steamers that were struck, ignited instantly; their Dwarven cargo with them. The steamers' return fire was more accurate and refined, and the beaches of Blood Bay were torn to shreds by cluster shot and incendiary shells. Hundreds of Orcs screamed out in agony, as they were gashed and singed by the steamers' deadly payload, but their kin were not disheartened by their fate.

Their catapults released again, and the steamers fired back.

"Fookin' Orcs," Rokdar cursed aloud to his men. "Thay neva' fight with 'onour."

Rokdar Ironvein was a Captain in the King's army, and a proud one at that. He'd served in a dozen wars, and fought in hundreds of battles. Like many of his kinsmen, he lived for the thrill of combat, and that's why, at the age of 195, he was still swinging his axe. Many Dwarves usually retired from young men's work by the time they reached his age, but not him.

He'd sooner be dead, than languishing the last of his years away in some comfy chair at home, as his bastard grandchildren ran around wrecking the place.

A fiery projectile smashed into the waters, just off the prowl, and for a split-second he thought his preference was going to come into being much sooner than he liked.

"Give 'em fire, boys!" Rokdar yelled out towards the cannon crews at the bow of the steamer.

They primed their cannons, and rushed aside just as the fuse took. There was a deafening roar as they fired, and the steamer trembled. Some of the younger, less experienced of Rokdar's regiment lost their footing and tumbled to the iron plated floor, but the older veterans looked on with grim determination.

"Three 'undred yards, lads!" roared Captain Pike, over the din of cannon fire. "They be waitin' for us."

Rokdar hefted his axe at these words, and tested its weight. It was heavy, but he was still strong, and he took pride in this. Like many Dwarves, Rokdar was a little over four feet tall, broad at the shoulders, and blessed with stumpy but even broader legs. He wore overlapping scales of steel, a gift to him from the King himself given in better times. His helm was made of bronze, but had turned green with age. A flowing white beard poured out from the helm, and rested over his armour.

If one caught him without his helm, which was rare, then they'd of seen a wrinkled face with a classic hooked nose of the Dwarven kind, and grey-coloured eyes.

"Two hundred yards," Captain Pike called again, fighting with the iron-studded wheel at the steamer's castle to keep it straight. The waves generated by other steamers, and the impact from nearby catapult projectiles, was stirring up the sea into a bubbling cauldron.

Rokdar pounded his chest, and let out a roar. His men did the same. They were all fired up for the fight, and not one Dwarf in the whole fleet was disheartened by the prospect of battle, not even if many of their comrades were now burning alive - courtesy of the Orcs' war machines. Rather, it riled them even more so.

The Orcs of Kaldra had besieged the Man Kingdom of Karandir. King Farril I of Karandir was a good friend of Mountain King Ugani, Rokdar's liege lord, and so naturally, a Dwarvish intervention was inevitable. The Orcs had surged down through their borders, overrunning Karandir's armies, and laying waste to several of their towns and villages.

Whilst King Farril I was marshalling his forces for a counter attack, further south, Mountain King Ugani had seen fit to launch his own campaign further north, in the flank of the Orcs' territorial gains. Though somehow, they'd gotten word of the Dwarvish expeditionary force, and were waiting for them on the beaches of Blood Bay. Four score Dwarvish steamers, carrying 4,000 battle hardened dwarves, pitted against the innumerable masses of greenskins.

"No matta'," Rokdar spat, hefting his axe. "Waitin' for us or no, they'll all be dead by sun rise."

The steamer's cannons fired again, and smoke wafted over Rokdar and his men, blinding them in the comforting familiarity of the fog of war.

"'undred yards, lads!" Captain Pike yelled, flinching as a wave of water crashed over the side of the steamer.

Rokdar moved to the front of the ship, manoeuvring his way past the cannon crews as they darted back and forth, plying their trade with steadfast heroism.

What he saw, would have shaken the heart of an ordinary Dwarf.

The beaches of Blood Bay were alive with the black masses of an entire Orcish army. They were standing as far forward as the sea itself, with the foremost warriors almost waist-deep in the waters. They were smashing their shields against their weapons, creating an earth shattering racket. There was so many, and for a moment, even Rokdar wondered if he and his kinsmen could possibly hope to win.

Another salvo of cannons tore into the massed Orcs, tearing holes in their claustrophobic grouping. Cluster shot was a brutal thing; a cannon shell designed to exploded half way across its firing arc, to rain down red-hot shrapnel on its victims. Incendiary shells were more savage though, and would simply explode into a wall of fire on impact. Though no sooner had the smoke cleared, and the flames quietened, the gaps created by the steamers' cannons were filled with more eager Orcs.

"Alright lads," called Rokdar, looking back at his men. "They be eager for it. We gonna be fightin' 'em from the moment we make landfall. Keep swingin' til yer axe stops hittin' green flesh."

His men bellowed a hearty response, waving axe and gun in the air in testament to their bravery. Rokdar felt a sting of pride pierce him; these were his men, and this was his regiment. If they survived the day, they'd all be heroes. He just hoped that the sun didn't rise to an ocean of Dwarvish corpses.

"This is it lads, brace yerselves!" Captain Pike shouted, before reaching for a level besides the wheel. He pulled it, and there was a hissing sound.

Shortly after, the front of the steamer ploughed into the beaches, grinding Orcs underfoot. The sides of the ship came down, released by big bulky hydraulic arms, and they splashed into the water.

"For Mordun! For Ugani!" Rokdar roared, as he ran across the deck and sprinted down the ramp. His men followed in short order, though some descended down the other side.

Rokdar splashed waist-high into the water, and a hulking Orc warrior, at least seven foot tall and built like a war horse, came at him with an axe. The Dwarf Captain raised his own, and blocked the strike using the shaft. The Orc rebounded, and snarled, but before it could come at Rokdar again, its face exploded from a musket shot.

"Yeah!" Rokdar screamed, pounding his chest with a gloved hand. "That's 'ow we do it lads! Any. Means. Necessary!"

Rokdar's men surged around him, struggling in the shallow waves, just as the first of the Orcs came at them. There was little time to establish order on a beach head, and Rokdar didn't try. Instead, he threw himself at the green skins, and just hoped he didn't cut his way too deep into their ranks - he'd done that before, at Grey Hill, and had almost died. It was easy to get carried away in battle, that sometimes you'd fight your way into isolation, surrounded by the enemy on all sides.

An Orc swung at Rokdar with a rusted mace, and the Dwarf knocked it aside with the head of his axe, and then headbutted his opponent in the groin. The Orc stumbled backwards, whimpering, and Rokdar followed up with a broad stroke across the midsection. The Orc fell back into the surf, a sickly dark liquid pouring from his grievous wound and mixing with the sea water.

Rokdar took a moment to look further down the bay, and saw that no less than twenty steamers had ploughed into the beach, and were disgorging their men. He also saw a tidal-wave of Orcs pressing against his kinsmen as they tried to get their footing. Rokdar shook his head; the first few minutes of a beach landing were always the most costly.

Another Orc broke from the chaotic melee around him, and tried its luck. Rokdar used his shoulder to shunt the Orc off balance, and then smacked it in the stomach with the head of his axe. It fell to its knees, gasping for air, and Rokdar brought his axe down on its skull. Blood and brain exploded from the Orc's head, covering the Dwarf captain from head to toe.

"YEEEEEEEAH!" Rokdar roared, pounding his chest again. "Drive 'em back boys, drive 'em back!"

His men complied, and pressed against the Orcs harder. Already they had managed to cut their way out of the surf, and were forming coherent battle lines.

Durgen Smokefoot checked his musket one last time as the steamer pulled closer and closer to the shore. He and his squadron were stationed near the back of the first wave – even from where he was, though, he could see Captain Ironvein at the front, exuding his usual bravado.

Durgen was a member of a combat engineer squadron, tasked specifically with fortification, demolitions, and the maintenance and operation of heavy machinery. What this boiled down to was that he wore less armor than the average soldier, won less glory, and was almost always in the vicinity of things that exploded.
Durgen tried to stop his hands from shaking and noticed many of his squadmates doing the same. This was their twentieth deployment together – perhaps not much when compared to particularly legendary military careers, but considering the fury of the battles they’d seen, Durgen felt that they were pretty lucky to have survived this long.
If they survived today, of course, a possibility that seemed less and less likely as the explosions from the cannonfire grew louder and louder. He didn’t have long to ruminate on this pessimism, however – the whole world seemed to shake as the steamer crashed into the shore. The captain bellowed something Durgen couldn’t make out, and the sides of the ship were released.
The infantrydwarves ahead of them charged out immediately, all axes and warcries and bloody murder. Within an instant, the waters ahead were foaming with the blood of orc and dwarf alike, and it was that mess that Durgen’s squadron walked out to meet a moment later.
They didn’t walk alone, though. With a great hiss of steam and the groaning of gears, a war machine rolled slowly into their mist and into the shallows.
It was a contraption of grey iron, a great spiky mass of metal on four wheels. It wasn’t a true steam tank, not really – really more of a mobile gatling gun (though at the speed the thing was capable of propelling itself, Durgen thought that calling it ‘mobile’ was being a little generous).
It required two dwarves to operate – one to fire it and one to feed the ammunition. It was capable of moving in two directions, forward and backward. It was made specifically for this kind of amphibious assault and was good at its job, armored from the front and capable of mowing down hostiles, and Durgen hated it with all his heart. For all the weapon’s power, it was capable of being a terribly fragile and vulnerable machine – and so, as the squad was fond of saying, while the gun escorted the infantry, the engineers escorted the gun.
Durgen crashed into the foam alongside his squad and began his steady march alongside the weapon. An orc sprinted at him from the surf, snarling and waving an axe about. Durgen’s musket belched black smoke and the orc fell, a ragged hole in its torso. He crouched behind the gun, already spraying lead into the black mass in front of them as the gunner had what seemed to be the time of his life.
Durgen looked up from reloading his musket to see the Chief Engineer of his squadron bellowing at them. “Forward, lads! Forward!” These were the dwarf’s last words before an orcish spear flew out of nowhere and impaled him through the chest.
It seemed that the last order they’d be getting for a while was ‘Forward’, then. Durgen stepped back alongside the gun and marched with it, slowly, up the beach.

Rokdar led his regiment from one bloody melee to the next, smashing apart the Orc line like a wrecking ball. But numbers were against him, and there was only so many times a mail-draped, sodden Dwarf could swing an axe before he tired. Looking up and down the line, he saw similar regiments suffering the same problem, and the Dwarven advance was under threat of stalling. That would be bad, and would leave them vulnurable to an Orcish counter-attack.

And the Orcs weren't tired. Every time one of them fell to musket or blade, five more would take its place. They came at the Dwarves time and time again, snarling, flashing their large yellow incisors and doing what they could to kill the invaders. The tired Orcs who didn't fall to the scythe, could escape to the rear and refresh themselves. The Dwarves did not have this privilege.

They needed a breakthrough, and Rokdar knew they needed it now.

And as if the Gods themselves answered his concerns, three more steamers slammed into the beach, but their sides did not fall down into ramps. Instead, their bows dropped onto the blood soaked sand, and from their vast dephs, surged the much prized steam-tanks.

Steam-tanks were heavily armoured vehicles, powered fully by steam, and travelled on twelve iron wheels the size of a Dwarf. Their hulls were heavily armoured, able to resist whatever the Orcs could hit them with. Better than this, they had a cannon mounted on them, and a firing platform occupied by twenty gunners at any one time. Their fronts were fixed with spike-draped ploughs, and within seconds, they advanced into the Orcs.

The steam-tanks' gunners tore the Orcs to pieces with well placed accuracy, indeed, one had to be a fine marksman to be deemed worthy of riding a steam-tank. Their cannons fired, unleashing cluster shot into the Orcs and reaping a wide scythe of death. The Dwarves near them cheered, and rushed into the breaches of broken bodies.

"Come on lads," Rokdar yelled, taking time to suck more air into his lungs. "Yer want ta' let those big bastards take all tha' glory? PUSH. THEM. BACK!"

His men cheered, and advanced a few more yards, knocking Orcs aside with shield and axe. Musket men riddled Rokdar's ranks, and they fired at the greenskins at point blanc range. Rokdar risked a look back, and saw two dozen of his men face down in the sand and the surf. The sight stung him, but he shrugged it aside.

War was a Dwarf's business, and dying in one was better than living through them. He knew this more than most. There was something horrifying about looking at a child, whose father you'd seen die from an arrow to the skull. Better to be one of the dead, so you didn't have to put up with the guilt and the shame of being the one who made it... still, it wasn't like Rokdar hadn't tried. He'd lost count of the amount of battles he'd fought in, and still he stood, at 195 years of age.

An Orc smashed through his men, two large blades in hand. It saw Rokdar, and marked him as a warrior of significance. It pointed a sword at him, and charged forwards.

Maybe today would be different. Rokdar swung his axe at the Orc's chest, but the Orc was a quick one, and it slithered out of the way, only to come back and strike hard and fast. Rokdar's scaled armour took the brunt of the attack, and he stumbled backwards. Two of his sworn-men came to his aid, one hacking at the Orc's leg, the other trying to barge it onto its back. But the Orc was a fearsome foe, and it sliced both of the Dwarves with each of its swords. They fell back, coughing bloody froth.

"Bastard!" Rokdar roared, getting his footing sorted. "Come back 'ere 'n 'ave some a me, eh?"

The Orc complied, and came at Rokdar in a swirl of blades. Dwarves had a problem with speed, usually relying on their bulk, strength and armour to carry them through. The Orc struck Rokdar across the helm, and then again in the stomach. His scaled armour held, but he was winded and collapsed to one knee.

And then there was a series of deafening roars, as wide bullets tore through the scene, narrowly missing Rokdar and the buckling Dwarven line around him. The Orc however, wasn't so lucky, and was torn to pieces. Rokdar looked on stupidly for a few seconds, and then looked back, and saw a rotary-musket mounted war machine advancing from his flank.

It wasn't as big as the steam-tanks further down the line, but it was formidable all the same. Rokdar hadn't seen the rotary-musket used before, but took a few seconds to marvel at its sheer destructive power, as the gunner raked the Orcs' rear left and right with a punishing curtain of hot lead.

"Yer bastards," Rokdar called, collecting himself. "Leave some for me axe, would yer!?"

And then the Orcs stormed forwards again, and the air became thick with the chaotic din of battle once more.

Hefty spears started flying above the melee, falling down into the Dwarven rear and striking into the steady stream of reinforcements rushing up the beach.

Rokdar was hacking his way through the Orcs, alongside his men. He was safe from the rain of spears, but he cast a backwards glance at those less fortunate. The war machine's Chief Engineer was laying in the sand, pierced by a crooked shaft. His crew were carrying on though, with grim resolve.

"Get that bastard firing again," Rokdar yelled. "We need to tear these fookin' greenskins up!"

The War Machine's gunnery crew scrambled to get their rotary musket firing, and Rokdar left them to their devices. He knew sod all about machinery, and only had a limited knowledge of guns. His axe was the only tool he ever needed, and trying to get the gunnery crew to hurry up might create a nasty accident. Aye, it was best Rokdar stuck to what he knew.

"C'mon lads!" Rokdar roared, his voice getting hoarse. "Let's clear this bloody beach!"

Rokdar's regiment had formed a vague semicircle, about fifty yards ahead of the steamer that had carried them. In their wake, they left a carpet of slain Orcs, mingled here and there with the bloodied bodies of their own kinsmen. It was hard work, moving over corpses, strike up at an enemy almost twice your size, and trying not to succumb to exhaustion. The Orcs were starting to relent though, and their charges were becoming sporadic and slow. They were realising that the Dwarves out matched them, at least on the beach.

Rokdar looked down the line, and saw the steam-tanks ploughing into the midst of the horde. Orcs clung to their sides, trying to climb up to the gunnery platform, only to be shot down by those who defended it. In the gaps the steam-tanks had created, surged pockets of Dwarves, plaguing the Orcish rear and doing terrible things to their morale.

An Orc's spear glided off Rokdar's helmet, and smashed into the chest of one less fortunate. Rokdar snarled, and looked behind the shoulder of the Orc he was facing, to see anther clutching an armful of those blasted shafts, and grinning menacingly.

"Aye," Rokdar spat, "I'll be havin' yer for that!"

The first Orc swung a sword at Rokdar, but the wily Dwarven veteran used his shoulder to bear the brunt of the strike, dulling the blade on the scales of his armour. It hurt, and would leave a bruise, but the impact failed to rock him. In response, Rokdar swung his axe hard. The Orc raised his shield, but the axe tore it into splinters, and took the Orc's hand in the process. The creature screamed, gnashing its teeth, and rattled out some curses that Rokdar didn't quite understand. Rokdar finished it, by repeating his swing, and as the Orc fell backwards, his comrade with the spears made another attempt. The spear smacked into Rokdar's chest, and was shattered by the hardness of the scales, but it winded him. Rokdar fell to his knees, coughing and spluttering.

"Too old for this shite," he wheezed.

The Orc dashed forwards, levelling another spear point for Rokdar's throat. Rokdar though, was a Dwarf of resourcefulness, and he his left hand fell to his waist and pulled forth Heart Breaker, his ornate pistol. Heart Breaker had been given to Rokdar a century ago, after he won the King's Tournament. It was a relic by today's standards, with a an effective accuracy of ten feet and an often want to jam. On the plus side, the obsidian primer it used kept the charge dry. You could drop the thing in a bucket of water, and it'd still work.

He aimed at the Orc, just as it thrust its spear forwards, and pulled the trigger. There was an explosion, and smoke blinded Rokdar. He couldn't see the Orc, but its spear wasn't forthcoming, so he assumed the best. His ears were ringing, and his hearing blacked in and out. There would be the intense sound of combat for a few seconds, and then nothing, and then more chaos. It gave him a headache, but he fought past it.

He suddenly became aware that there were no more Orcs in front of him, and the Dwarves to his left and right were cheering. He looked around, and saw similar things happening down the line. The Orcs were pulling back, but they weren't done. A new Orcish battle line was forming in front of their catapults - many of them scorched timbers, courtesy of the steamers' cannons - and some hulking great bastard, maybe 8 feet tall, riding some even bigger wolf, was galloping up and down the new line, bellowing commands.

"Aye, that be their Chieftain," Rokdar muttered. "I wonder if our cannons are wise enough to knock him out of the fight."

And then all of the beached steamers ignited into flame and smoke, releasing an earth shattering thunder. The front of the new Orcish line exploded into pillars of sand, red mist and body parts.

"That's our cue, lads," Rokdar wheezed, doing what he could to catch his breath. He truly was too old for this. "Let's get 'em!"

The Dwarven charge was slow; the men exhausted from fighting to establish a beach head. It didn't matter though, because the new Orc battle line - or what was left of it - was already buckling. Just one more mighty hammer blow, and Blood Bay would be theirs!

The various regiments composing the Dwarven expeditionary force took the oppurtunity to form into one large battle line. All across the bay, red faced Dwarves, coughing and spluttering from too much exertion, ran to bridge the gaps. Before long, they all represented one narrow but solid wave of steel.

The steam-tanks had fallen to the rear of the line, and took constant pot shots at the Orcs. The steamers, many of them now beached, did the same. It seemed to Rokdar, that every few minutes, the earth would shake and his hearing would end up with a sharp whining noise, as the Orcs a few hundred paces ahead were lifted from the beach and thrown about the place. They were brave bastards, Rokdar would give them that. He wouldn't stand still whilst his men were decimated left and right by an enemy he couldn't reach.

Rokdar ordered his men to stop for a few moments, even as the sluggish charge carried on about him. He didn't want to admit it, but he needed a break, before his heart exploded in his chest. He smashed the head of his axe into the stony sand and used its upwards shaft to rest on. Killing was a young'ns work, this was true.

"Why have we halted, Captain?" asked a red faced, but youthful looking comrade with a menacing grin. "You ain't keelin' ova' are ya?"

"Bah," Rokdar spat. "We did half the damned fightin', let the others do some."

"Glory waits for no Dwarf, Captain," the youngster replied impatiently. "Let's go, before there's no more Orcs left!"

Rokdar hauled his axe from the ground, not wanting to lose face in front of his men. "Alright, yer eager bastard. Let's go."

The regiment shifted back into its sluggish charge, and fought to catch up with the progressing Dwarven battle line. The Orcs meanwhile, riled themselves up into another frenzy, and stormed forwards yelling bloody murder. The two armies collided in another wave of thunder and death.