The village begged for help. The people hadn't slept for a week. Shadows came at night, and in the morning, they found corpses without a single scratch, but with faces distorted by terror, as if they had seen Gunther's tax declaration.

  "Alps," concluded Anatomist Vain, flipping through the bestiary. "Devious creatures. They feed on dreams."

  "And fear," Jem added. "The most heinous death: you simply fall asleep and don't wake up because your own nightmare ate you."

  We went out into the field. Night. Full moon. Dog cold.

  And then the Sergeant gave an order that would go down in squad history as Operation "The Naked Dozen".

  "Strip your armor!" he commanded. "Everyone! Down to your shirts!"

  "What?!" Talah stroked his gilded breastplate. "I am going into battle, not to a bathhouse!"

  "Armor won't save you from a nightmare," the Sergeant cut him off. "Alps ignore plate. They strike directly at Resolve. But armor eats Fatigue. These creatures teleport. We will have to chase them all over the field like jackrabbits. If you exhaust yourselves — you fall asleep. If you fall asleep — you die. Take off the iron, Golden Boy."

  Gunther, who usually trembled over security, suddenly beamed.

  "Take it off!" he supported. "If there is no armor — there is no durability wear! We will conduct a battle with zero tool expenditure! This is genius optimization!"

  It was a pathetic sight.

  Twelve men in the middle of a cold field, shivering, swearing, and flashing pale rear ends (some had taken off their pants too, thinking it would help), stacking chainmail into the cart.

  Greta, sitting on the driver's seat, crossed her arms and cast a critical eye over the formation.

  "An oil painting: 'The Parade of Freaks'," she snorted. "Scars, bones, and blue skin. Dieter, cover your shame with a shield, don't disgrace the firm. And if any of you catches a cold — I will treat you with castor oil and an enema."

  "Weapons!" the Sergeant commanded. "Put away the shields, they are useless! Take pitchforks, pikes, anything with a long shaft! We need Reach!"

  And then THEY floated out of the darkness.

  Alps. Pale, faceless, emaciated, without eyes or mouths.

  They didn't walk; they flowed through the air like living fog.

  The first attack was soundless. An Alp waved a bony hand, and a black haze enveloped Sniper Gunt and Huber.

  They collapsed to the grass, weapons slipping from numb hands. Instantly.

  "Status: [Sleep]!" Jem yelled. "They are defenseless!"

  A second shadow darted toward the sleeping Huber. Above his body coalesced a Nightmare — a black, toothy phantom resembling a wolf. It began to tear at the sleeper, not with claws, but with terror itself. In his sleep, Huber screamed and thrashed.

  "Wake up!!!" roared Adler.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Our fat man was the Standard-Bearer today, since Gisel was nursing a pierced shoulder and whining in the wagon. Adler understood: if everyone fell asleep, he would be eaten last, but painfully.

  Running up to Huber, he smashed the butt of the banner shaft into the ground right next to his ear with all his might.

  "GET UP, YOU BASTARD! YOU'RE BEING EATEN! SHIFT IS NOT OVER!"

  The 'Rally the Troops' skill worked like a bucket of ice water.

  Huber jumped up, gasping for air, eyes wild. The Nightmare dissipated with a hiss.

  "My wife... she was there..." he wheezed.

  "There is no wife there! Only death!" The Sergeant kicked Gunt in the ribs with his boot. "Wake up, sniper!"

  The running began.

  It resembled a game of tag in hell.

  Alps teleported behind our backs. Fighters fell, falling asleep on the move.

  The others ran up and woke their comrades with kicks, slaps, and shouts.

  "Don't sleep!" squealed Adler, running across the field in nothing but his drawers with a flag. "Gunther will dock your bonus!"

  "Look at this," Jem commented, watching from the roof of a shed. "Naked men running around a field with sticks, slapping each other in the face to stay awake. If I were a bard, I'd write a ballad called 'The Night of Sleepy Idiots'."

  "Talk less, yell more!" Greta snapped from the cart. "That one on the left is about to put Talah to sleep!"

  Talah (without his armor, he just looked like a big, hairy guy) was furious. He was chasing an Alp with a scimitar.

  "Stop!" he roared. "Let me cut you! You're slippery!"

  The Alp vanished and appeared in another corner of the field. It cast Sleep.

  Talah yawned. His scimitar lowered. His eyes began to droop.

  "No..." the Gladiator mumbled, settling softly onto the grass. "Mama... five more minutes... porridge..."

  The Shadow-Nightmare was already reaching for him.

  "Alarm clock!" Gunther commanded. "Save the Investment!"

  Alf threw a Net. The Alp got tangled in the ropes and couldn't summon the Nightmare.

  And Bodo ran up to the sleeping giant and delivered a resounding slap to his face with a full swing.

  "Wake up, 9500!"

  Talah sprang up and, out of fright, cleaved the netted Alp in half. Black ichor splashed onto his bare body.

  "Cold!" Talah acted offended.

  We chased them for an hour.

  We were exhausted to the limit. We were shaking from cold and adrenaline.

  But when the last Alp crumbled into black ash, we were standing on our feet.

  All of us.

  In the morning, while getting dressed by the fire, Gunther sorted through the trophies Vain had brought. The Anatomist laid them out on a stump like surgical instruments.

  "Parched Skin," Gunther touched the parchment-like leather. "Three pieces."

  "Third Eye," Vain disgustedly poked a jar containing something slimy.

  "And this..." Gunther picked up a black, distorted object that looked like a petrified mask frozen in a scream. "Petrified Scream."

  The Accountant consulted his reference book, "Prices and Recipes". His eyes went wide.

  "Gentlemen! We hit the jackpot. This isn't garbage. This is the complete crafting set for an Alp Trophy Necklace."

  "And what does it do?" asked Huber, pressing a burdock leaf to a bruise.

  "It provides +5 to Resolve."

  Gunther looked at Talah.

  "Next time, we will put this on the Golden Chicken. And we won't have to run after him with an alarm clock."

  "What about me?" asked Huber, pale and with bags under his eyes. "I feel like I've been chewed on all night."

  "But you're alive," Greta said, pouring him a hot decoction. "Though you look like crap. Drink. It's wormwood and nettle. Bitter, but it clears the head of night terrors."

  Jem tuned his lute.

  "Do you know what we realized today?" he asked.

  "What?" grunted Dieter, fastening his chainmail with relish.

  "That the most terrifying weapon in the world is not a sword. It's a pillow. And that Adler, when scared, yells louder than death itself."

  Since then, Rule appeared in the "Bums" charter:

  "Against Alps — no pants, but a loud voice. And no sleeping, even if you dream of a naked woman, a full purse, or a kind mother. Best of all — wear a piece of an Alp around your neck."

  (End of Chapter 27)