Soul of Swords (Book 7) by Jonathan Moeller

jaws of defeat. 
    Malden felt his lips peel back from his teeth.
    And it explained the runedead. 
    The runedead had arisen in response to the wickedness of the Demonsouled, to the corruption of mortal men. And if a Demonsouled was the liege lord of the Grim Marches…well, little wonder mortal men suffered such afflictions. With the aid of the runedead and the Justiciar Order, Malden would throw down Mazael and free the Grim Marches. 
    His hand strayed to the black dagger at his belt, his fingers curling around its hilt.
    He would rid the world of evil men...and feast upon their lives.
    Malden’s eyes lingered upon the camps outside the walls, his anger growing. Ever since Lucan had cured his illness, his temper had grown worse, his outbreaks of anger had becoming more violent. At first he wondered if Lucan had done something to him, if the rage was a side-effect of the strange healing he absorbed through the black dagger.
    He looked at the camps again, his rage redoubling.
    But why should he not be angry? So many of his vassals had betrayed him. The craven fools could not accept his vision, and could not believe that the runedead had risen to serve the Lord of Knightcastle. Instead of fulfilling their oaths to their liege lord, they had fled east to throw their lot with the Demonsouled Mazael Cravenlock. 
    Even Malden’s own sons had betrayed him.
    His own wife.
    For a moment he remembered Rhea’s corpse lying in that vault below Knightcastle, and a shadow of grief dimmed his anger. His own wife had betrayed him, along with his eldest surviving son and heir. Malden gripped the stone railing, his hands tightening. All of his sons were dead, save for Gerald, and…
    The grief drowned in his fury.
    And Gerald had betrayed him, fleeing to Mazael. Tobias would have, too, if the runedead had not cut him down. And Rhea had let the traitors out of their cells.
    Both Rhea and Tobias deserved to die for betraying the Lord of Knightcastle…and Gerald would yet pay. Malden’s treacherous vassals would pay, as would the Justiciar officers who had chosen to side with a Demonsouled instead of their Grand Master.
    The rage surged through Malden, and he pushed away from the railing, stalking across the High Court and towards the doors to the Hall of Triumph. He strode into the Hall, his boots clicking on the gleaming floor, the banners of long-defeated enemies hanging high overhead. The massive windows behind the dais and the high seat offered a splendid view of the valley and the Riversteel.
    A dozen runedead stood motionless before the dais, awaiting his commands. 
    “Bring me one of the prisoners,” he said. “Now. Immediately. Go!”
    Four of the runedead moved off. Malden paced back and forth before the windows, watching his reflection in the glass. He was well into his sixties, but the translucent image in the window was that of a man of twenty, tall and muscled, with bright blue eyes and shining golden hair. 
    The lives he took through the black dagger, the lives of the wicked and the corrupt, had made him young again. At first that had disturbed him. But Lucan had explained that the vitality was a gift of the gods, a reward for cleansing the world of evil. 
    Malden had been sick for so long. There was no reason he shouldn’t enjoy his newfound vigor.
    A short time later the runedead returned dragging a prisoner, a peasant man of about thirty. Caldarus’s Justiciars had scoured the man’s village, and declared that he was a secret worshipper of the serpent god and a supporter of Caraster. Lucan had slain Caraster, but the taint of the rebel’s evil remained.
    “My lord Malden,” said the peasant, sobbing, “I’ve done nothing wrong, and they’ve taken my wife and sons. Please, my lord, please…”
    Malden drew his black dagger, the sigil carved into the blade flashing with green fire. The metal felt icy cold beneath his fingers, as if the weapon had been carved from ice. Malden plunged the blade into the