Authors: Ian Alexander,Joshua Graham
From The Ashes
DAWN TREADER PRESS
titles
by
Ian Alexander
Award Winning Titles:
Once We Were Kings
#1 Amazon.com Bestseller
Award-Winner in the USA Book New Best Books Awards
Award-Winner in the Forward National Literature Awards
Joshua Graham
Award Winning Titles
Darkroom
1
st
Prize Forward National Literature Award
Award-Winner in the USA Book News “Best Books” Awards
Beyond Justice
Suspense Magazine Best of 2010
Barnes & Noble #1 bestseller
Amazon Kindle bestseller
2008 Amazon Breakout Novel Award Competition Semi-Finalist
The Door’s Open
2010 Authonomy Christmas Story Competition
The Accidental Series
The Accidental Existentialist
The Accidental Exorcist
The Accidental Acquittal (Death and Taxes)
The Accidental Healer
The Accidental Hero
The Accidental Rebel
The Accidental Poltergeist
Historical and Fantasy
Four Gifts for Aria
Legend of the Tiger’s Throne
DAWN TREADER PRESS
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Copyright ©2011 by Ian Alexander.
All rights reserved.
Cover
Art
©
Can Stock Photo Inc. / soupstock
For the hand of a princess, a man will risk all
.
Ying had heard this since he was a boy stealing around outlying taverns and tea houses of Xingjia, though he never gave it any credence.
And yet here he was, down on one knee, struggling to keep his head up as he deflected blow after blow from his opponent Moh-Gwei, prince of the seventh district of Chungzhuo.
Jeers directed at the prince arose from the lower section of the arena where the peasants from Xingjia congregated with their straw cone hats, caged chickens, and goats at their side.
He recognized most of their voices, though Chi, his closest friend was not with them in the stands.
Chi stood in the wings, victorious after winning the previous round of this contest.
Moh-Gwei stopped his attack just long enough to shout into the stands.
“Send me a warrior to fight, not a mangy peasant!”
Fists trembling in rage, his teeth clenched,
the
muscular prince held his sword over Ying and glared down at him.
“Fight!”
The sun baked the back of Ying’s neck, causing the sweat to form a thin film between his provincially fashioned leather breastplate and his shirt.
Ying steadied himself on the pommel of his sword and pushed himself up.
Taking a few steps back, his weapon still trained, Moh-Gwei pulled his helmet off and smugly dropped it onto the hot sand.
He flashed a pearly smile into the crowd where in the elevated booth decorated with red silk curtains, sat Mei-Liang—the princess for whom all contested over these past three days.
Ying took advantage of his opponent’s momentary distraction to charge at him with all his might.
He knew better than to make any sound and risk losing the element of surprise.
Not a doubt in his mind; he would defeat this haughty blue-blood.
But before his sword even came close, Moh-Gwei swung his shield, knocked the weapon out of Ying’s grip, and with another heavy blow struck him across the head.
Ying fell with a gasp.
Flecks of light danced before his eyes.
Had he not been wearing a helmet—also fashioned by the craftsmen of his village, his skull would have been crushed.
Moh-Gwei pressed his blade into the center of Ying’s throat.
In a barely interested voice, Moh-Gwei shouted to the stands, “Do the rules of battle apply here at the contests?”
A rhetorical question, but Ying understood.
On the battleground, his life would have been forfeited.
To be spared at this point was to be conscripted to a lifetime of dishonor, so killing a fallen opponent swiftly was an act of mercy.
Unless the prevailing warrior was particularly cruel and decided to torture him first.
From the corner of his eye, Ying beheld a pair of hands parting the scarlet curtains that adorned a booth at the front row of the stands.
From it emerged the most beautiful face he had ever seen.
Princess Mei-Liang’s fair countenance lay half-concealed behind an ornate fan.
Her eyes, demure though they were, seemed as round and large as a mare’s.
They sparkled in the sunlight.
Her silken ebony hair flowed down to her shoulders until a gentle breeze caused some of her locks to fly like the flag from the mast of a sailing ship.
Even Moh-Gwei paused, arrested by her beauty.
“
Your
Highness.”
Right hand still holding the sword to Ying’s neck, he inclined his head,
then
gestured to his opponent.
“O fairest of all princesses,” Moh-Gwei said, his tone pompous and eyes haughty.
“The regional protocols of war dictate that a fallen warrior be entitled to an honorable death.
Shall I not preserve this poor boy’s honor, and that of his house?”