Flesh and Fire Read Online Free PDF

dolt, and jolted forward, his thickly muscled arm reaching out to grab him, shove him into useful work. The boy felt those fingers start to close on his upper arm, but the Master snapped his fingers and, as though yanked by a chain, the overseer backed off, glaring at the useless slave, but restrained.
    The Vineart studied the boy, his eyes hooded and his expression thoughtful, then turned back to watch the attempted cleanup.
    The boy barely noticed any of this, other than relief when the overseer backed off. He was too caught up in the attack on his senses, and the odd feel of something missing, to worry about his own safety.
    Finally, the vat was righted, and the salvaged mustus returned to the container. It had been no more than a span of moments, but more than half of the liquid was lost forever, soaked into the dirt, the pulp and skins ruined beyond reclamation. The smell hung, tempting and damning, in the afternoon air.
    Filled with a terrible rage that colored his face near-blue, the overseer grabbed the offending slave child by the ear and threw it down on its knees before the Master.
    “Lord Malech, this worthless piece of shit awaits your judgment.”
    All of the slaves stopped once again, and watched.
    The Vineart stared down at the slave, his long, tapered fingers stroking the fabric of his trousers thoughtfully. The boy, still frozen, staring at the now-righted vat, found his attention drawn away by that small movement. In style, the Master’s clothing was not so much different from those of the slaves he owned; pants and a sleeveless tunic. Unlike their cheap, mud-colored garments, however, his were made of fine-woven cloth in a richly dyed crimson, the color of a sunrise, setting off his olive-toned skin. A heavy leather belt was wrapped twice around his hips, buckled with a metal clasp, with two leather bags and a smaller, short-handled version of the silver spoon hanging from it. He wore sturdy low-heeled leather boots on his feet, unlike even the overseer’s bare and dirty toes.
    “Kill it,” the Master said.
    No voice protested, not even the slave child; its fate had been sealed the moment the barrel was overturned. To waste, or cause waste. . .The crime was clear, and the punishment well established. The overseer nodded and drew back his whip, bringing it down on the back of the slave’s neck with enough force to break it instantly.
    The sound of the crack carried into the air, and—unlike the smell of the crushed grapes—dissipated there. The body collapsed, crumpled into something no longer human. Just meat.
    Someone let out a long, shuddering sigh, and a sob was quickly muffled.
    “Enough!” The overseer turned and glared at the remaining slaves “You, toss it into the pit, bury it with the rest of the refuse. The rest of you, back to work! The harvest will not happen on its own!”
    There was a rustle of movement as all the slaves rushed to obey his orders, and then Vineart Malech raised a hand once again, a single ring glinting silver on his index finger. Every figure stopped cold, including the overseer. “That one.”
    All eyes turned to follow the Master’s hand.
    The boy’s heart shriveled and dropped all the way down between his legs when he realized that finger was pointing at him.
    “Bring it here,” the Vineart continued.
    The boy closed his eyes in resignation. He was dead. The Master was never wrong, and the Master never took note but to order death. He clasped his hands together and bent his upper body down, his gaze now on the ground as was appropriate for a slave in disgrace, but otherwise the boy showed no fear. How could one already dead, fear?
    The overseer wrapped a hand around the boy’s forearm, but he didn’t need to drag the slave; he went calmly, almost willingly. There was no purpose to resisting. When he reached the Master’s feet, he bent farther into the dirt, placing his forehead on the ground in full surrender.
    In his abject pose, he could not see what