Negotiation

Just as Duke's grand caravan rumbled into Southshore, poised to charm the pants off the Barov family, a seismic event of epic proportions was shaking the very foundations of the Orcish Horde. But we'll get back to that later, because right now, Duke had his own brand of chaos to stir up.

Caer Darrow, nestled northeast of the Hillsbrad Foothills, was a sight to behold. The Barov family's ancestral castle perched majestically on an island, practically floating on the pristine waters of Lake Darrowmere. This shimmering lake wasn't just a picturesque backdrop; it was the ultimate moat, a liquid fortress guarding their ancient seat of power.

On the southern side of the island, where the mountains graciously flattened out, lay the beating heart of the Barov family's industrial empire. Massive blacksmith shops, linked together like a monstrous, metal-forging beast, belched thick, black smoke into the sky from chimneys that never seemed to rest. The island itself was a hive of activity, a constant ebb and flow of humanity, with merchant caravans arriving and departing in an endless, clattering stream.

To the west, a sprawling port stretched out, clearly designed for more than just fishing boats. Duke, with a knowing glint in his eye, even spotted small warships bobbing in the water, obviously the Barov family's personal fleet, ready to defend their gilded cage. The island wasn't entirely cut off from the mainland, though. A colossal stone bridge, easily 200 meters long and wide enough to accommodate four carriages abreast, served as the sole umbilical cord connecting the island to the shore road. The lake itself was surprisingly shallow, barely two meters deep, its clear waters allowing one to gaze upon the bottom.

Of course, perched high on the mountain, a formidable fortress stood guard over the entire Barov Castle, its grim stone walls bristling with at least ten cannons, all ominously pointed towards the shore. If some poor, misguided soul ever dared to lead an army up that narrow mountain road, it would be less of a battle and more of a live-fire shooting gallery. Not a single soul in the attacking force would make it across that bridge alive.

On the shore, Duke brought his horse to a halt, a wry smile playing on his lips. If he hadn't been a man out of time, this bustling, prosperous island would, in just a dozen years, become a dead, terrifying place. The entire Barov family would be wiped off the map, and this very spot would be claimed by Kel'Thuzad's chilling Cult of the Damned, who had bent the knee to the Lich King. It would transform into a very famous, or infamous, landmark in 'later history' – the Scholomance. Duke would never forget the countless times he and his friends had been wiped out here, again and again, in the game, each pixelated death burning the layout into his memory.

Duke let out a long, theatrical sigh.

"Master, what in the name of the Light is troubling you?" Makaro, his ever-loyal shadow, asked, his voice laced with concern.

"Nothing, Makaro," Duke drawled, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Just feeling a touch of... existential boredom."

At that precise moment, one of Duke's private soldiers, who had been scouting ahead, galloped back, his horse kicking up dust. "Report, sir! Looks like we've got a bit of a pickle ahead!"

Makaro's face darkened like a brewing storm. "Didn't we send word ahead, a raven, a messenger, that His Excellency the Duke was coming to pay a visit?"

"That's right, sir," the private soldier confirmed, trying to keep a straight face. "But, uh, a merchant caravan up ahead seems to have had a bit of a 'mishap' on the bridge. Their carriage apparently overturned, spilling a whole heap of goods and attracting every stray cow and sheep in the Hillsbrad Foothills. Now, the only bridge to the island is blocked tighter than a drum. The Barov family sent word they're terribly sorry and asked us to, you know, cool our heels for a bit."

Makaro's face turned the color of thunderclouds. "What about the ferry? The one they use for heavy loads?"

"Oh, those?" the soldier replied, trying to suppress a smirk. "They were all 'sent out' just before our messenger arrived with the good news."

What a load of horse apples! This wasn't a mistake; this was a blatant, in-your-face display of power, a thinly veiled attempt to assert dominance.

"Master, we should..." Makaro began, his hand already twitching towards his sword hilt, ready to unleash his private soldiers and send every last obstacle tumbling into the lake.

"No need," Duke chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that held a hint of steel. He pointed his riding whip at the imposing castle on the island. "I want to send a clear message to the Barovs: before I became a duke, I was, first and foremost, a powerful wizard. And the Stormwind Kingdom, contrary to popular belief, has never truly perished. Pass the order: change to spiked horseshoes."

Spiked horseshoes? Makaro blinked. Horseshoes were for protecting hooves, sure, but spiked ones were usually reserved for navigating treacherous ice and snow. Fortunately, their journey had skirted the edges of the snow-capped Alterac Mountains, so spiked horseshoes were indeed part of their gear. The private soldiers, though puzzled, moved with practiced efficiency, quickly replacing the horseshoes.

Meanwhile, within the opulent confines of Barov Castle, Duke Alex Barov received a report from his subordinate, a smug smirk playing on his lips. "They stopped?"

"Yes, Your Excellency. They halted before they even got close to the bridge."

"Good, good. Just leave them be. I have no intention of humiliating them," Alex waved a dismissive hand, though his eyes held a glint of satisfaction. "I simply don't want to see the young Duke start spouting nonsense right off the bat. In these troubled times, food is more precious than gold, and I won't have him thinking he can just waltz in and demand our stores."

At that precise moment, hurried footsteps echoed outside the door, growing louder by the second. It was another of Duke Barov's personal attendants, his face as white as a freshly bleached sheet.

"Your Excellency the Duke! They're here! Edmund Duke and his party are HERE!"

Duke Barov's brow furrowed. His personal bodyguard rarely lost his composure. If it was an ordinary arrival, he would never have made such a fuss, running over breathless and wide-eyed. And Duke... he must have used some utterly unexpected means to cross that 100-meter expanse of water to get here.

"He's here? How in the blazes did he get here?"

"Ice! That Edmund... he froze the entire lake solid!"

Upon hearing his man's frantic report, Duke Barov practically sprinted out of the room, making a beeline for the castle's south-facing terrace, which overlooked the bridge. What he saw there would be etched into his memory forever.

Above their heads, the sun shone brightly, mocking the impossible scene below. Before his very eyes, stretched a thousand meters of solid ice. The entire surface of Lake Darrowmere, which had served as the impenetrable barrier for Caer Darrow Castle, was now a frozen highway. A group of people and horses galloped across the slick, shimmering surface, charging straight towards the castle. The thunderous drumming of hooves on ice startled countless workers on the island, sending them scattering like chickens.

Not far off, Duke Barov saw his captain of the guards standing there, looking like a complete idiot, alarm bell in hand, utterly bewildered whether to ring it or not. Fortunately, at the last possible second, the captain's eyes landed on Duke Barov.

The Duke sighed, a sound that was half exasperation, half grudging admiration, and waved a hand. The captain, looking immensely relieved, bellowed: "Open the city gate! Welcome our distinguished guests—"

In truth, to maintain the illusion of being 'busy,' the gate had been left ajar. But having guards lined up in a formal welcome formation versus a casual open gate were two entirely different ballgames. As if to perfectly time his dramatic entrance, just as the Barov family's private soldiers finished lining up and the welcome horn blared, Duke arrived.

Duke nudged his horse's belly, and the tall, pure white steed, a magnificent beast, came galloping over the frozen lake, its hooves clattering on the ice. At this moment, Duke, silhouetted against the backdrop of the swirling, magically conjured snow, didn't look like an ordinary mortal at all.

He was a vision: the forked white wizard's crown, adorned with intricate purple patterns, soared towards the heavens. His white wizard robe, edged with deep blue, unique to Stormwind's mages, billowed dramatically in the icy wind. A belt, radiating a murderous aura and glowing with a mysterious blue arcane light, was cinched around his waist, and a strange, dazzling ornament, faintly crackling with lightning, shimmered at his side. The pure white cloak he wore fluttered wildly, revealing the golden rune patterns embroidered upon it. He was just a gentle, elegant young man, yet he exuded the aura of a god striding out of a blizzard.

As he rode across the ice, the warhorse beneath Duke's crotch neighed like a dragon, its breath steaming in the cold air. This grand entrance alone startled Duke Alex Barov, who had come to greet him, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Beside him, Makaro pulled the reins of his horse, dismounted with a light leap, and immediately began to belt out a booming announcement: "Behold! The Court Mage of Stormwind! The Duke of Karazhan! The destroyer of a hundred thousand Orcs – Edmund Duke is HERE!"

Next to him, four carriages were lined up, their contents shrouded. Duke's private soldiers, with practiced swiftness, flung open the boxes in the carriages.

Two carts, overflowing with gleaming gold bars. And two carts, piled high with frozen, severed Orc heads.

Duke Barov's eyelids twitched, a silent testament to his utter shock.