I wanted to test him, but more than that, I want to build some confidence. I see how he glances over his shoulder when we walk down the street. I see how his eyes glance anywhere but the eyes of the people he talks to. I’ve seen those signs, a hundred times. They were the ones my older brother had shown all of his life before ended with a rope and a knot tied to the ceiling fan that he spent most of his life in. Perhaps, I see in Lawrence a chance to redeem my cruel negligence of one so close to me. Perhaps I’m just arrogant, so I thought of this plan. This was a high-level dungeon — the highest-level dungeon I’ve been in, but I’m confident he can take it.

I do not wish to instill a false sense of confidence in him. Confidence without anything to back it up is just arrogance. But Lawrence? He might not see it, but he has the balls to back it up. I’ve fought alongside Shard-holding mages before, back in Reno. They were nothing like him. Not as vicious. Not as clever. They were content with standing back and shooting off spells like they were turrets. Lawrence had the reflexes of a fighter. I saw that when, at just a distant whistle, he was able to tackle me out of harm's way in the last door we did together. Not only does he have the reflexes and the viciousness of a fighter he has, from what I’ve seen, the magic ability to match any of them. He probably thinks of himself as some form of trash. Probably bullied all of his life; probably gained weight as he hid away from the world in his own little bubble of isolation. I want to wipe away those delusions.

I believe he has the qualities to be a top ranker. To stand alongside me as a vanguard. As a symbol of hope that humanity will need in the very, very, very near future. So I had a plan. Normally, I only used this plan when I was by myself to clear the areas beyond the doors quicker, but Lawrence, I believe, can handle that. For that reason, as soon as I find my footing on the marble floor beyond, I take out my air horn. There’s one good blow left on it.

“What are you doing with that?” Lawrence asks.

“Trust me,” I answer.

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I must look insane as I blow the horn and run to the nearest bridge. I’ve already noticed that the only other ones around us were beyond the wall of Fog and that the only door on this side was the one we stepped into, so this would be a natural choke point. First, I want to check his magic capacity. How many spells could he use in quick succession? He was supposedly around level 13. One of my old party members was a level 12 Shard-holding mage who had a magician folk hero as a patron, and he could fire ten off before he got the headache. Let’s see how many Lawrence could do. I ran to the bridge and formed a tower shield with the Burl Bracer. The roots of the Burl burrowed into my flesh and writhed their way up my arm like a gauntlet.

A brown-furred Rat stuck his head out of one of the doors on this side of the canal, and it screeched a warning. A moment later about thirty of the Rats came pouring out of the same door. I was banking on this. I set my legs apart.

“Father Lugh, grant my arms the power of a hundred men. Grant my legs the strength of a thousand, and grant my heart the courage of a million.”

Heat spreads through my body as I feel the ground beneath me crack. A thousand of these things wouldn’t be enough to move me. I even tried it out on a semi-truck back in Reno. I’ll hold them here, and let Lawrence deal a bulk of the damage. Though, I might need to thin out their number a bit.

“Ears!”

I call as I pull a javelin from the quiver on my hip. I hadn’t taken out my earplugs from the last door, so when I see Lawrence cover his, I let loose. The javelin slams into the group, and knocks over several of them. The one that had been hit by the javelin had been dragged back by it and was currently dangling off the wall. Three others lay twitching on the ground. Dead or unconscious, it didn’t matter. The trampling feet of the other approaching Rats would tear that difference apart.

The horde was soon atop me. I pulled out one of my javelins and used it as a short spear. Their weapons clangor against the Burl, and I could feel them push against me in an attempt to overthrow my position and toss me into the river below the bridge. I lash out. With every jab, the point of my javelin becomes a little duller, and a little more bloody. I pierce one through the throat and pull it forward; it gasps as it chokes on its own blood as it collapses into the crystalline water and stains it red as it floats face first down the canal. One Rat climbed atop the others and aimed a hatchet blow toward my head. My javelin catches it in the ribs. A wet, bloody wheeze emerges from its mouth, and the blow falls short. I shove it, and it falls back into the writhing pile.

A volley of flaming arrows slams into the group. A few of the Rats fall away. Some rolled around in the ground behind the mob, while the smarter ones took to diving into the waters to ease their burning fur. White and black spikes of marble jut out of the ground and pierce a few of the Rats on their sides. It’s going well. About ten of the initial score and a half now lie dead.