"People speak of eyes watching from the rocks. Travelers come wandering into our village, eyes wild and brains wrought with madness. Sometimes, men disappear. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, darkness comes."

They numbered two dozen, sitting cross-legged on the ground before a long, bare table. The man who had met them in the hills-the one called Sif-was there with them. All had shaved heads and thick brambles of facial hair. Some beards were black, some streaked with silver, and some ...