Patrick by Stephen R. Lawhead

his horse on the strand below.
    It was dark before we reached the ráth. Even so, I was taken to stand in the yard outside the king’s hall. Larger than all the others, it housed his queen and children and some ofthe more intimate members of his retinue, which I estimated to be twelve or fifteen men, mostly warriors. Upon our arrival they all came spilling out of the hall to gather behind the king, who stood in the flickering torchlight, gazing impassively at me.
    After a moment he said, “My slaves do not escape.” Just that, nothing more. But I understood. He lifted his hand, and four great brutes of warriors advanced bearing stout branches pulled from the fire.
    The foremost approached and swung at my head with the flaming brand. I ducked as the flame whiffled through the air. He swung again, and I dodged to the side, but my hands were still tied and the warrior on the other end of the rope pulled tight so I could not move as freely as I might. A second man approached from the side, swinging at me. I darted away, and he missed, but the first warrior caught me a glancing blow on the shoulder. The searing heat made me cry out.
    Sparks flew from the end of the firebrand, and this delighted the crowd, which now consisted of the entire population of the ráth. A third warrior, taking up a position behind me, thrust his torch at my legs. The fourth joined the others to form a loose circle around me, and they began taking it in turn to swipe at me with their burning torches.
    I moved to the side and kept moving, dodging and feinting as the fiery cudgels whirled around me. The circle tightened, and the strikes came faster.
    A blow caught me on the arm and another on the hip. The crowd roared its approval. I kept moving, circling. The firebrands riffled and fluttered in the air. I could feel the heat on my skin when they passed near. More and more often they found their mark—one struck my hand, another found my shin, my back, my side. Each strike left a burn mark on my ragged clothing or skin. The rope prevented me from evading all the blows, but I stayed on my feet and kept moving—eluding one brand only to have another catch me. One of the warriors struck me hard on the shoulder, and another landed a solid thump to my chest. The flames licked my throat.
    The circle tightened further. I could no longer avoid the swift-flying branches, and the warriors began striking at will. I covered my face with my arms and tried to keep moving, but my feet soon tangled, and I fell. I climbed to my knees. The rope jerked taut, dragging me forward.
    The strokes were coming thick and fast now. One after another. Crack! Crack! Crack! Again and again. They stood over me, raining fiery blows. I curled into a ball and rolled in the dirt to keep from getting my clothes and hair set alight.
    The beating proceeded with rhythmic precision—as if they were chopping wood, hoeing weeds, or thrashing grain. Even when, one by one, the firebrands went out, the men beat me with the smoldering ends. They were not glancing blows now but solid, hurtful thumps and knocks. I ground my teeth to keep from crying out and endured the pain as best I could.
    Just when I thought I could take no more, the king spoke a word, and the frenzied thumping stopped. They lifted me to my feet, but I could not stand, so they dragged me to one of the nearby horses and threw me across the back of the beast. As before, I was carried up the mountainside and dropped outside the shepherd’s bothy.
    Madog emerged from the hut as soon as the warriors had gone; he stood for a time clucking his tongue and shaking his head. Then he built up the fire and fetched some water from the stoup. I drank and eased my battered body into a more comfortable position. Madog sat with me for a little while, but as there was nothing he could do, he gave soon up and went back to bed.
    I lay by the fire and felt the fierce ache spread through my body—one weal melding with