The Dark Tower I: Lady Gunslinger
Try as she might, even with her hand clamped tight over her wound, she couldn’t stop the blood from seeping through, occasional drops falling to the snow. Her breath rose up in plumes of mist as she ran, the cold attacking her body, mixing with the pain and blood-loss to drain her strength. Not for the first time that night, she cursed this
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“Just ‘cause yer the king’s spawn, thousands of years of tradition’s got to be tossed out the widow like so much piss in a chamber pot.” He went on like this for some time before finally turning to the girl, fixing her with a glare that seemed as if it would burn a whole clean through her, but didn’t speak for several moments. Then: “Be at the training field at precisely five o’ the clock on the morrow and be ready t’ bleed. I ‘spect you’ll be runnin’ t’ hide under yer ma’s skirts ‘fore the end of the day.” This thought seemed to lighten his mood. Barely. “Now get out of my face, maggot!”
With that he turned and stormed into his cabin, slamming the door. The girl took off across the field, back toward the city and the castle at its center, unable to keep the smile from her face. Whatever he might think of her as a pupil and of her chances of lasting through the training, with that last insult, Cort had accepted her. In the morning, she would begin her training as a gunslinger!
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She woke with a start, right hand reaching for the pistol on her right hip, her fog-filled mind telling her that something was very wrong, though unable to figure out just what. Her hand found nothing but bare skin. She was naked, her pistols gone. Her first impulse was to panic but she forced herself to stop and try to clear her head, to calm down and think the situation through.
Looking around, she saw that she was lying on a bed, sheets in a crumpled pile at the foot. The bed sat in the corner of a very small room, the head and right side against the walls, with space for little else (a tiny table beside the bed was the only other piece of furniture). There was a curtained window over the right side of the bed and two doors to her left. Pictures of unknown people and places were situated along the rest of the wall space.
She yanked aside the curtain and saw the world she’d arrived in only two days ago… remembering the events after her arrival, she looked down at her left side. The wound had been cleaned and dressed - it also began to ache now that she was aware of it again. After she’d succumbed to the exhaustion, blood-loss and cold, someone had found her, took her in and tended to her hurt.
The sound of a doorknob turning made her whirl around. She had he legs under her, ready to push off the bed if she needed to defend herself. One of the doors opened and a young woman with short, dark hair entered but stopped short when she saw her guest crouched on the bed.
“Thought I felt you wake up,” she smiled uncertainly. “Um, sorry about your clothes but they were pretty skeezy and needed a serious washing. Did what I could to get the blood out but there’s only so much you can do with that kind of stain, ya know. Your wound was actually a little easier to handle since the bullet went clean through and didn’t hit anything vital; just some stitches and a bandage - but you shouldn’t be moving around too much or you’ll pop them. The stitches, I mean. You’ll also need lots of fluid and plenty of rest before you’re ready to go anywhere. Just lay back and I’ll-”
“Who are you?” The tone of voice made it seem like less of a question and more like the demand for a name.
“Oh, gosh, here I am babbling along like an idiot and completely forget to introduce myself; I’m Alice. Ali, for short What’s your name?”
“Rona.”
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