This is a bad plan. The Shadow Knight shifted his weight and observed as the battle-witch swung farther this time than last. He eyeballed the distance between them and the next tower, wanting his calculations to be incorrect.
If they were able to generate the momentum needed, which he highly doubted, they'd smash into the next tower. He had no way of judging how much damage that would cause or if they would survive. Adding to his concern was the groan of a link above, one that had begun to pull apart with the strain of the swinging weight of the homemade pendulum.
The tower dropped a foot, a sign the chain was starting to give. He shifted to his knees and began hauling up the witch.
His plan, aside from climbing into the gray mists, was to push his witch until she snapped, and the magic emerged. He'd felt it when she fell off the fortress of the Red Knight. She had used it against him in an attempt to save his life, which was an improvement over the trap where she had not channeled it any direction at all and her bizarre use of power against Green Dawn Cave.
There was a theme to when she used her magic: when either she or he was in danger. He was relying on provoking that instinct to get them out of this mess once more. All he had to do was put them both in mortal danger, and they would be back on land.
As he steadily drew her up, hand over hand, his mind went once more to the sight of her dying at the Red Knight's hold. He had witnessed many men - and quite a few battle-witches - die in battle. None of those deaths hit him the way hers did. Beautiful, witty yet an absolute coward in battle, she was not the kind of woman he ever would have considered for his army, had they not been thrust together.
Her act of self-sacrifice meant more to him than it should, along with the spike of fear that pierced him watching her plummet to her death. What struck him more strongly: her death had the same impact on him as that of the loyal master-at-arms who had died in his arms, slain by the troll. How did the death of a lifelong friend compete with one of a battle-witch he had only just met?
The urge to protect her - nay, to possess every inch of her - returned, more powerful than before. The woman foretold to end the curse, who bore the name of the greatest queen of Black Moon Draw, whose touch stopped his racing thoughts and whose body tempted him to stop marching to battle so he could spend time running his hands, tongue, lips over every inch . . .