When the cry went up to kill a brother, Masef moved fast; he'd always been smooth, gifted with reflexes and hand-eye coordination. He had a skinning knife on him, but it wasn't the ideal weapon to use against men in armor in a standup fight.

[i]Burn![/i] the voice in his head screamed, but Masef ignored it, knowing that it was the old warlock, trying to find ways to gain a greater foothold on his soul. He could feel the power drawing in, flexing itself, ready to be released, but screamed back at his own mind, [i]No![/i] 

Masef looked like a crazed man for a moment, that alien expression crossing his face before Qazar, a tyrant of legendary cruelty, was locked back in his prison.

It was bad enough that the old bastard already had one bony finger dipped in his soul, staining like blood in pristine waters. Old Qazar didn't know it all, but Brand had given Masef the skills he was using right now; his larger brothers were already taking up the attention of the guards with their larger presences. He moved along the outskirts of the fight, making sure to keep the guards in front of Sigur and Kazahk. 

When one of the guards pulled a blade, about to go after Kazahk, he swung into action; a fireplace poker was the handiest weapon he had, but it was good enough for what it had to do; it might not penetrate good chainmail very well, but it did wonders when swung at the back of a man's knee; that one screamed and dropped his weapon in agony. Masef, however, didn't hesitate. Instead, he pistoned a booted foot down on the man's head. Perhaps Daramalsh made him harder -- the old Masef wasn't quite so quick to put a man down, but this was a life or death fight with steel bared.

The guard got off lucky, and Masef took the fellow's sword from nerveless fingers.