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 [b]saw a rotary-musket mounted war machine advancing from his flank.[/b]

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!"