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.