Thanks for being with me here. :-)

I'm telling you, the few of you who have added this story to their favourite list are the ones keeping me at it, so thank you for reading. I hope the language isn't too awkward for you.

If it is, please drop me a line and I'll try to improve it.

CHAPTER 2

Burn, Witch, burn!

When her vision cleared and was focused again, Phyllida noticed that the young man had completely vanished. Not only from her view, but altogether. Completely spooked by the whole experience, the girl slowly picked herself up on unsteady legs and hoisted her gear bag to her shaking shoulder. She looked round her. How very odd. The cave looked so very different all of a sudden. No dirt lying in heaps and no trace of the hole she had dug to enter and certainly no cave light anywhere. It had, in effect, disappeared into thin air. Still, the place was well lit. Light came streaming in through several holes and, of course, mainly through … the entrance. Phyllida gawked; she couldn't believe it. The entrance was intact!

Staggering and with her head buzzing, the archaeologist stepped out of the cave and into the blazing sun. Her visible relief was, however, instantly replaced by an annoyed concern when she realised that she must have come out through another opening. The natural setting was totally different with a lot more trees and bushes, and her camp and car were nowhere to be seen. Phyllida sat down heavily, her legs about to buckle underneath her, took out her water container and downed almost all of the contents.

What a rush! She still couldn't make heads or tails of what had just happened, but it had been quite a ride. Now, if only her legs would behave and stop shaking, she would go round the cave and find her camp site. The fog had certainly gone and replaced by an amazingly warm sun.

Phyllida took out the contents of her gear bag and made an inventory. The silver blanket was gone, of course, but everything else was there, including the I-Pad. The only thing to disappear down there, then, was Mer... what was his name again? Merthur? Arthur! No, that was the other person he mentioned. She frowned. Why were those names so familiar?

And that's when it hit her: Geoffrey of Monmouth, the literary monk of the 2nd century England, had actually written a myth including those two names. It went beautifully with the use of Old English too. She quickly turned on her I-Pad and opened her archive on mythical scrolls.

Geoffrey of Monmouth. Librarian monk of the fabled Camelot in which the ambitious King Arthur resided. Camelot was in almost constant war with its neighbouring countries and though King Arthur voiced an ambition of gathering the countries and unite Albion, he never managed to undertake this gargantuan enterprise. Geoffrey of Monmouth vaguely mentions some names of valiant knights and an evil sorceress by the name of Morgana or Morgan le Fey who should, allegedly, have entrapped her nemesis Merlin Emrys.

Merlin!

Nooo-ooo. That would be too much of a coincidence. It couldn't be! Unless, she had been dealing with some kind of seriously disturbed geek who was a part of a Geoffrey of Monmouth-fan-society. Stranger things had happened. Phyllida quickly ran through the different stories attached to this particular myth, which were few and short. Apparently the prophecies had been vaster than Monmouth's actual records. Oh, well, it was all mythical sagas and as thus not to be taken seriously.

Phyllida put her I-Pad on stand-by with the intention of reading on in the car and proceeded round the site to the other entrance where she knew her car and camp must be. Amazing, how quickly the fog had lifted and how warm it was all of a sudden. With a furrowed brow that bore witness to her still contemplating about the boy with the disappearing act, she made it round the slope and found … absolutely nothing. No main entrance, no path, no Knights Templar stone and certainly nothing to even suggest that a camp or a car had ever existed. ? Now, what? Oh, right – her car and camp must have been stolen. Clearly! That was the only explanation. And she could prove it, there were tire tra... no … not really.

For the thousandth time that day, the otherwise bright young scientist was left completely stumped and dazzled. The irony of it didn't escape her. Well, Phyllida? You wanted an archaeological mystery? You've got it!

Flabbergasted, confused, agog and aghast, she threw in the towel and headed for the main road. There was no mobile connection this far out in the country, so she would simply have to start walking and hope to god that a car would pass her and pick her up.

It took her about 30 minutes to reach the road, except … it couldn't have been the road, because there was no tarmac. Lots of pebbles and larger stones – but no sigh of tarmac. She must have gone in the wrong direction. Turning back, the archaeologist perused another direction, wondering what the heck had happened to her otherwise quite astute sense of direction. After a while, however, it was clear to her that the first road she had encountered had, indeed, been the only one in the vicinity and she had no choice but to follow it and see where it led her.

She understood nothing: a vanished car and ditto camp site (the entire site!), a completely altered excavation site (where did those trees come from?) and a road that had, all of a sudden, lost its tarmac. This just wasn't her day. Obviously, she must have come out at a completely different place than she got in. Perhaps she would find the car and camp – and the tarmac – further down.

Her musings were interrupted by a rhythmic sound of something resembling thunder which made her turn round. Oh... horses, of course. She carefully stepped aside to let the riders pass and perhaps they could even tell her where the hell she was. As they approached, she secretly grinned at their attire. Blimey! Perhaps there was a medieval fair going on somewhere. Three riders clad in brown and blue garments with neckerchiefs and gloves with incredibly wide cuffs, two of them having sheathed swords tied round their waist. How extraordinary – these players really put their soul into the whole thing.

"Oy," she cried, halting them when they were close enough. "Excuse me. Can you tell me where I am?"

The riders stopped abruptly, their steeds skidding to a sudden halt, and turned, faces full of wonder. One of them turned his head towards the others and then back at her again. What? What it her hair colour? Had they never seen a purple-black-haired girl before? Then one of them opened his mouth and said … something in Old English! Phyllida blinked. You've got to be kidding me! Wow, she had heard of seriously committed medieval players, but this was taking it a notch too far. She sighed and repeated her question in Old English – otherwise she would probably never get out of there. The man smiled at her.

"Oh, now I understand you, my boy. You are in the Camelot forest – only about ten miles from Camelot."

Camelot? Oh, please, she thought, they're still holding true to the play. They must have meant Caerleon. Wait … did he just call her a boy? How rude!

"Erm … I am eternally indebted to you, sir," she said, trying to play their game.

The riders nodded with a grin when she said 'sir' and turned to ride off. Ten miles! Oh, boy, but at least she was on the right track. And perhaps she would meet some saner people along the way.

x

She didn't! In fact, she met amazingly few people, and the ones that'd come her way, were the same brand of nutters. This time she had asked them (still in Old English as a good little girl) if they had a mobile phone, but they had just stared at her like she was the nutter. Oh swell. She would have to walk all the bloody way to Caerleon. Not that she couldn't do it; being an archaeologist, she was in naturally good shape. It was just not the way she had hoped to spend the day.

And the poor boy? She still couldn't believe she had seen what she had seen, or that he had disappeared the way he did. She would, of course, have to tell the police immediately when she got the chance.

Phyllida E. Dewhurst reached Caerleon 2 hours and 30 minutes later, accommodating a painful sunburn, compliments to her pale, sensitive skin and this surprisingly hot sun, and had a shock - again. People like the ones she had met on her way, paraded in and out of the town, which, by the by, slight detail, was dominated by a huge castle from the 1st century.

This is impossible, she thought, there was no castle when I drove through. This place looks nothing like Caerleon. What the hell is going on here?

Clearly, she been going in the wrong direction – again . She shortly contemplated passing it and move on to the next town (which had to be Caerleon), but her sore feet advised her against it. Surely, there had to be someone with a mobile in that quirky medieval town down there. Phyllida sighed audibly and proceeded to enter what had to be Camelot. Did they really build all this for the sake of a medieval fair? But that was impossible, even if it did turn out to be masonite and plywood.

Emptying her water bottle for good, she proceeded, confident that everything would be resolved presently.

x

"Who is that?"

Merlin was sitting on the window sill, polishing one of Gaius' brass heaters for lab work. The work was less tedious when one kept oneself entertained by looking out the window, and it was during this pastime that Merlin spotted one lonely-looking and thoroughly confused young boy with an odd shade of black-purplish shoulder long hair and very quaint clothing. Clearly not from Camelot, he thought. The figure was turning and turning, stopping and asking several people questions. They looked at him suspiciously and just shook their heads, leaving the boy bewildered. Merlin's empathy immediately went out to the boy. He remembered how awkward his first time in Camelot had been.

"I don't know," Gaius was joining him and leaning over his shoulder to get a better look, "certainly not from round here."

"That's what I was thinking. Have you ever seen hair of that colour?"

"Looks like it's painted," the court physician murmured.

Merlin!

The young sorcerer sighed, and let the brass ware fall into his lap.

Merlin! This time louder.

"His master's voice," Gaius grinned.

Gaius' grin froze when Merlin shoved the brass into his hands. Arthur was first priority as his old mentor very well knew, which meant that his assistant had to abandoned his polishing. Gaius sighed. Admittedly, Merlin brought his share of money to the household, but he did wish the prince would ease up on him from time to time – and relinquish the young boy into his labour force more often.

Gaius put down the brass ware and looked out the window again. The strange boy was still down there; the physician cocked his head. What a young boy it was too and looking completely forlorn. And by and by, increasingly more fearful.

x

She couldn't believe it! All these people appeared to take their characters so seriously that they all pretended not to understand her need for a mobile phone. Phyllida felt how she was moving into a dangerous fit of hysteria. How long were they going to let her walk round like this? She was thirsty, hungry, tired to the bone and still somewhat shocked by the whole corpse-in-need thing. Not even when she said she needed to report a missing dead person, did anyone help her. Incredible! And the buildings weren't even fake! They were actually made of stone and mortar!

Utterly bewildered and on the verge of tears, the archaeologist felt very much like the 6-year-old little girl who once lost her mother in a shopping centre. In her desperation to find some kind of contact with proper authorities, she took out her I-Pad again, hoping to god that the connection to the Internet was available. At the same moment some idiot collided with her and made her drop the expensive piece of equipment which, of course, fell onto the cobble stones with a sickening crack and instantly activated the I-Tunes. Had the situation not been so vexing, Phyllida would have grinned widely at the 80s' Footloose filling the ancient streets like a bad version of an anachronistic joke. As it was, she merely swore over rather than under her breath, scared that the pad might have been damaged.

Picking it up and dusting it down, checking all the functions, she never saw the crowd that had gathered round her as if by magic. She managed to mute the volume and put the pad back into her gear bag and then saw the crowd gawking.

There was absolute silence for several seconds.

Then somebody pointed an accusatory finger at her and screamed sorceress!.

"What?" Phyllida had just time to say before she was swept away by brutal guards, who ripped her bag off of her and dragged her along, her feet scraping against the cobble stones.

What happened next was a blur for the unfortunate archaeologist. It all went very quickly. The two thugs hauled her sorry arse into the impressive castle (which was not of cardboard!), through several hallways and into a majestic baronial hall where some court members appeared to be assembled. One of then, a tall, ruggedly handsome and leather clad man with burning eyes, asked the guards about the raucous.

"Your Majesty," the guard left to her replied, "this boy was caught using magic!"

Of all the confusing and overwhelming things that was happening and was said, Phyllida focused on only one statement.

"I am not a boy!" she cried, annoyed.

"SILENCE!" the other guard roared and smacked Phyllida in the face that whip lashed backwards and to the side.

Now, she was scared. Really scared. This was not a setup! This was not a TV-show! The searing pain in her jaw told her that. This was a bunch of seriously and dangerously disturbed and deranged individuals who all believed themselves to be living in the 1st century. The authorities would have to be told of this – but first she had to escape.

The tall man in the leather outfit was now standing in front of her, grabbing her already sore chin and lifted up her face.

"Boy, eh?" he said, his voice low and intense – and uncannily calm. "I don't think so. This is a young girl."

She didn't offer him a saucy comeback. He looked awfully strong.

"Out with it," he demanded, "did you use sorcery?"

By now, Phyllida was too petrified to answer; her eyes bulging, all she could do was really pant and huff with shock.

"ANSWER ME!" he yelled. The volume had the desired effect. Faster than she would have thought possible herself, she told him: "Ofcoursenot. Iwouldn'tknowhow."

The man that appeared to be the king scoffed. "Hmphff – are there any witnesses?"

"Plenty, Sire," the guard pointed out and then reached out Phyllida's bag, "and evidence."

Phyllida whimpered when she saw the King reach down and extract her I-Pad. This was not good. The pad hadn't been turned off and this nutcase would, beyond doubt, see it as an item of devilish origin. She could smell the pyre already.

The archaeologist's predictions turned out correct. King Uther fingered the object that immediately was came to life from its stand-by state (for once, it was seriously inconvenient that Apple's products were so reliable) and the mere light of the monitor made Uther drop it onto the floor with a hiss that was followed by his agitated tap dance on the offending object. Phyllida whined even more. Oh, boy – was that going to hurt her finances. It had taken her the best part of a year to save for that thing. No to mention all her recordings and findings that would now be lost.

Once the object had stilled and become depressingly dead, the tall demonic king turned to the small, shivering woman and handed out his verdict.

"You are hereby found guilty of wielding magic, and by the decree of Camelot that all magic and sorcery is banned under the pain of death, I condemn you to burn on the pyre. The verdict will be executed as quickly as possible to rid us from this dangerous threat."

This woke up the dying embers in Phyllida's heart.

"What, what, what … whattayamean? What do you mean pyre? Are you stark raving mad?" Yes, you are, aren't you?"

The guards didn't bother to slab her this time, but proceeded simply to drag her away and out of the great hall, while she was still making her opinion heard.

"Are you actually going to burn me? You realise that constitutes murder, don't you? Does that fact even compute in that mush you have for brain? I warn you, when the authorities find the remains of my body, they will ask questions and eventually find this more than illegal society you have here. YOU ARE MAD AS A HATTER!"

That was about the last that Uther heard of this extraordinary girl, who seemed to be zestier the more trouble she was in.

x

Dusk had set in and veiled the town in beautiful dark blue colour when Merlin finally stumbled through the door to Gaius' quarters. Endless chores had kept him with Arthur most of the day and made sure his entire lanky form was bent with sore muscles and aching joints. I'll become Old Merlin before my time if he keeps this up, the young (!) warlock thought. Gaius was still out on his rounds, and the place was silent, but for some construction work going on outside. The characteristic clangs and bangs were mixed with the intense humming of an agitated crowd and the manservant leaned out of the window to see what the fuss was about.

Outside, a considerable crowd had already gathered in the town square in front of the castle to witness the building of a … pyre! Merlin gasped and drew back his head, his young features etched with concern. Oh, no. Not another one. When would the king stop burning random people that he, for some reason, thought were sorcerers? He sighed and wondered who it would be this time. My dear god, let it not be a child.

The sound of a door whining on its hinges made the young boy turn round and flash his mentor a tired welcoming smile that, however, quickly subsided.

"They're about to burn someone again. Do you know who it is this time?"

"Yes," Gaius said softly, "I was just down in the dungeons watching the poor girl being 'questioned'."

"Girl? Someone we know?"

"It was the gi... boy we noticed this morning – the bewildered one who kept turning and turning. The one with the odd black hair colour, remember?"

"Really?" Merlin gawked at Gaius, "that was a girl?"

"Yeees," the old court physician mused, "I wonder very much if her shoulder short hair is a result of her previously being shaved for being a witch. If so, she'd really gone from the ashes into the fire by coming here."

"Maybe she's not right in the head?"

Gaius cocked an eyebrow. "There might be something in that. She certainly talked gibberish for a while, there. Right up until..."

"Until what?"

Gaius leaned over and looked Merlin in the eye and his words came with emphasis, perhaps as a means to remind the young warlock what he would be risking if ever his magic was found out.

"Until the very end of my visit when she appeared to understand what she was facing. She said, quite lucidly: "My god – they're really going to burn me dead, aren't they?"."

Merlin said nothing for a while, the young boy being even paler than usual. "What had they done to her?"

"The usual: Broken her ribs, punched out a couple of molars, whipped her and thrust iron hot metal splinters underneath her nails."

His apprentice shivered.

"Yes, Merlin," Gaius said in a low voice, "that could happen to you."

Merlin shook his head vehemently, "I wouldn't let them. This actually proves that she's not a sorceress."

Gaius nodded. "Doesn't it always. But the King usually finds some way of explaining away the prisoner's lack of power to escape."

"We can't let them kill her," Merlin cried, upset.

"You can't save her, Merlin," his faithful friend emphasised, "you can't risk it. If you're caught, you'll burn yourself for sure. Besides, they're taking her in a just a few minutes. Uther is afraid she might have some friends that will break her free."

"For once he's right!" Merlin said, clenching his teeth and left the room in three steps. Gaius trotted after him as quickly as the old legs could carry him, crying for him to stop – in vain.

x

Phyllida E. Dewhurst had never found a damp, cold corner of hard stone so comforting. In this corner, the archaeologist found a safe haven of random thoughts that, thankfully, had nothing to do with her current situation. In this corner, she imagined how she finally made up with his sister, how she managed to find the perfect Christmas gift for her dear old father (warm socks, of course – and they would be grey, his favourite colour), how she finished her thesis on the Knights Templar of Wales and their exodus to the Holy Land – she would show Tom Beauchamps, the arrogant bastard, who thought he had the key to their whereabouts in the 13th century.

A metallic sound to her left disturbed her concentration and line of thought, making her wince in agony and briefly reminded of the things she should not think. Like the fact that she had just been beaten to a pulp in the most brutal way, that her ribs felt like they were floating round freely, that her very young life was soon about to end in the most painful way known to man... All that she would not think about.

But then the metallic sound was repeated, and big, aggressive men rushed in and ripped her out of her vegetative state, mercilessly forcing her to face her doom. This can't be happening! This must be a joke (some joke!). Or I'm dreaming. Yes, that's it. A nightmare!

Two well armoured guards hoisted her up, each of them taking an arm, and hauled her sorry arse down the dungeon corridor. She screamed loudly from the pain of having her shattered ribs torn further apart and felt how the blood from her broken molars started trickling down her jaw again. She rather felt than saw a young boy that seemed vaguely familiar standing beside an old man with white, wavy hair of shoulder length, both of them standing in an entrance and watching her being dragged to her death. Then came a sudden and eye piercing light from the door that was opened. It hurt at first, but when her eyes gradually adapted to the sharp light, what she saw in the square hurt more: the pyre. Waiting for her.

The old physician and his assistant followed the guards and their prey into the streets where the crowd was waiting for their pound of flesh. Mothers were lined up, talking to their babies, telling them that this would happen if they didn't behave; men had brought their sons to the spectacle that it may harden them and make them grow up and others were there simply to enjoy the sight of a body writhing in pain, either envisioning the victim to be their much hated boss or mother-in-law or simply focusing on a perverse feeling of arousal.

Merlin hissed into the old man's ear: "We must do something!"

"No, Merlin," Gaius hissed back, "There is nothing we can do. She's not the first to lose her life to Uther's persecution of magic and she won't be the last. You can't rescue them all!"

The guards and their victim had reached the pyre and were now climbing the platform. To the right was the executioner with the flaming torch and the dungeon physician, who would testify to the prisoner's death once she had been burned. Not that there would be much to examine, yet rules were rules.

Phyllida had never felt so tired in her entire life. It took all the remains of her energy to lift her head and look at the crowd assembled to watch the last minutes of her life. Her bloodshot eyes scoured the people and saw hatred, empathy, fear, indifference, lust, joy and shock and sadness. The last two expressions belonged to the two people she had passed in the dungeon corridor, the young boy and the old timer. She absent-mindedly wondered if those two would be the last that she …. and then she recognised him.

Phyllida blinked her stinging eyes; it couldn't be! But it was! It was! She was certain of it – down there, next to the old timer, stood the young boy she had hauled out of the crystal cave. How is that possible? He was dying the last time she saw him. His heart was ceasing to beat and a blood poisoning and necrosis was rapidly spreading through his body. Yet, there he was. Fit as a fiddle! HOW WAS THAT POSSIBLE?

Then her vision became blurred; no, no! She irascibly blinked to clear her eyes. Except her eyes weren't the problem – her vision was blurred because they had lit the pyre and smoke was getting in her eyes. No, no, no. Desperately, her mind wheeling, she roamed her brain to remember what had started all this in the first place. And that's when it came to her. You must go back and find me – and convince me to tell Arthur everything.

That's what he had said. That was her mission. And here he was, the young boy. What was his name again? Merlin? Merlin Ambrose? Emrys? Phyllida coughed, the smoke getting into her lungs. Oh, god – she had to tell him before she lost her ability to speak.
Somehow, she found the strength to bow her head and turn it where the air still was relatively smoke free; she inhaled deeply and gratefully and then turned her head, trying to pin the boy with her eyes, and yelling:

EMRYS … EMRYS. I HAVE A MESSAGE FROM EMRYS TO EMRYS!

And then she broke down coughing, unable to speak any more. Choking in the deadly smoke particles, she never saw how the one she called Emrys stiffened and opened his mouth in utter surprise.

"Merlin, did you hear that?" Gaius whispered intently in the young man's ear.

"Yes," was Merlin's only answer. He was looking at the poor girl who was now enwrapped in flames to the extent that you could hardly see her any more.

And suddenly he knew how to save her. Merlin concentrated and whispered:

Áspréadap ádas

With a roar, the flames were extended to cover up the entire pyre and Merlin then followed it up by murmuring another spell: ábregdan frówan æt cote Merlin. Gaius looked at him askance, pride and surprise in his eyes.

"I didn't know you knew that one," he whispered, his voice impressed, "that's very advanced magic, Merlin."

"Neither did I," Merlin admitted, "it just came to me."

"You saving her must be destiny, then," the physician murmured and turned to leave in haste. Merlin was already ahead of him, shoving his way through the crowd.

xxx

So what happened to our poor heroine? Will she ever manage to convey Merlin's message to himself? And will the message make Merlin finally tell Arthur about his powers?

Well, perhaps I'll tell you in the next chapter. ;)