Chapter 24
The lines of the weary, broken-hearted undead stretched down all the miles of the road as far as James could see. A storm lingered overhead in the moonless night, bringing heavy gray clouds and the fresh-air scent of early May rain. Beneath the storm they came in a cluttered throng, rows and rows of them, white-skinned, black-eyed, marching to the tempo of a common-time drumbeat only they could hear. Many stood straight-backed, eyes ahead, stoic, as though this were nothing, they had suffered worse before, they had suffered over more years than the oldest humans could imagine. Others wept openly, the blood staining them in their sadness, their white faces streaked pink. They were the elders, the wisest and the most respected, with gray in their hair and wrinkles in their faces.
