Free Dragon Knight's Sword by Mary Morgan Page B

the real enemy in front of them.
    “Sorcha, stop... nae !”
    The air hummed with energy as an old man emerged from the trees, staff held high at the falcon. The falcon swooped at an angle over them before taking flight high over the treetops.
    Words spilled forth from the man which neither Cormac nor Duncan could understand, each still in their warrior stance.
    The energy instantly flowed around Duncan, as if he was suspended in time itself. Colors danced, lightning flashed across the sky as thunder rumbled in the distance. His sword arm vibrated with the power. A power connected with the man in front of him.
    Reality slammed into Duncan. This was no ordinary man. Slowly he lowered his sword arm, breathing heavily.
    “Duncan?” Cormac hissed. “What are ye doing ?” Cormac still held his sword raised, glancing not only at the skies but also at the man in front of them.
    “I believe we have found him, Cormac.” Duncan knelt before the druid. The one man who could take back what had happened twelve moons ago. Relief spread through him realizing there might be a chance to make amends. A spark of something lit within, as if he was coming to the end of his journey in this life.
    “Rise, Duncan Alexander Mackay. Ye do not kneel to me, my son. Ye are still a Knight of the Order, and I should pay respect to ye and yours.” The druid placed a firm hand upon Duncan’s shoulder.
    When Duncan spoke, he kept his gaze upon the ground. “Do ye ken why I am here?” he asked.
    “With magic ye and your brothers were cursed, and with magic ye wish to undo the curse.”
    Duncan’s look of surprise shattered the pain on his face as he looked up at the druid.
    “Who are ye?”
    “I am known as Cathal.”
    Cormac had been standing at a distance, but when he heard the druid mention his name, he stepped closer.
    “The great druid, Cathal? Greatest warrior and counselor to King William?”
    Cathal smiled at Cormac’s words, “Aye, son...I am. And to the Mackays.”
    Duncan was now standing, for he could not believe that here before them was one of the greatest druids of all time—the same druid who had counseled his father in his early years.
    “It is told ye were killed in battle,” uttered a shocked Duncan.
    Laughter roared from Cathal. “Do the bards still weave that tale and that I slew giants, as well? As ye can see my son, I am very much alive. Now, Sir Duncan, ye and your friend must be weary and hungry. Come, we have much to talk about.” Still laughing and shaking his head, Cathal turned and went into the trees.
    “Sweet Brigid,” murmured Cormac. “What just happened?”
    Duncan gazed transfixed on the spot where Cathal disappeared into the trees. Slowly he turned to Cormac, “It would seem I have indeed encountered the one and only person who can help. In truth , I do not think he will like my plan.”
    “What the bloody hell is your plan, Duncan?” Cormac moved in front of Duncan, piercing him with a glare.
    “I cannot say for certain anymore.” Duncan stepped past Cormac and went to follow Cathal.
    The small stone cottage belonging to Cathal did not do him justice, thought Duncan. This was a great druid. However, to look at him now, anyone would think him to be a simple woods dweller. His clothing consisted of an old brown robe, knotted at the waist with leather, and on the belt hung a pouch. The only glimmer of status on him was the torc around his neck. Duncan wore a torc as well, yet his was of silver, whereas Cathal’s glistened of gold.
    They followed Cathal into the cottage, ducking low at its entrance. When they stepped inside, they noticed the roof extended much higher. Duncan and Cormac exchanged curious looks.
    Seeing their puzzlement, Cathal chuckled, “Aye, it is deceiving from the outside for that purpose. An illusion ye could say.” He winked. Moving over to the hearth, he lifted the lid on a pot simmering over the flames and tossed in some herbs. Without turning, he motioned to them.