A tug on his shoulder and a voice in his ear urging "It's time" drag him out of his sleep stupor, but Bae has moved on before Rumple can pry an eye open. Around him the other inhabitants of the tent—the other officers—are stirring, grumbling, coughing in the cold, as the squires fetch them tea and fold up the blankets. When Rumple hauls himself from the tent the first sight to greet him is the silhouette of a bear standing on its hind legs beside a campfire, framed by the pale pink dawn. "Your Majesty." Rumple's tongue is slow and thick today. Favian presses a mug into his stiff hands.

"Lieutenant." The King nods a greeting. "Won't snow today. Fine morning for battle."

Rumple suddenly has to relieve himself. He trots off to the tree line and hunkers down behind an oak. The uproar in his bowels embarrasses him, but from the sounds around him, he realizes he's not the only soldier with a rebellious body.

When he returns to camp, everyone is up and finishing tea. The older soldiers are eating stale biscuits and speculating on what game might be left in the woods, now that ogres have been pushed through and into the canyon below. An archer examines the tip of an arrow. "Soon as this is over, I'm going hunting."

"Venison would be nice," another daydreams. "We haven't had fresh meat in three weeks."

"They have." The archer juts her chin toward the canyon. "That's 'cause they eat it raw."

"They eat their own. I saw it. When we chased 'em down, one of the females fell and broke her leg. The rest were on her before she'd had time to die."

"Seen a village they'd torn through. Not a living thing left. Just bones. Found two carcasses rotting in the heat: a old woman clutching a baby to her chest. The ogres had gnawed on them too."

"They're a scourge, an abomination to life. This isn't just a war: it's a holy war."

The conversation strikes Rumple as identical to one he'd heard eighteen years ago at another winter camp. At the time he'd been shocked by it, but he understands now the necessity for gruesome talk: it's a preparation for war, as essential as stringing bows and sharpening swords and spears. It steels the soldiers' hearts against the killing to come.

The squires rush about, collecting the mugs and instructing the soldiers to report to their commanders. Soldiers cluster in their assigned platoons. The Chief Medic informs his new recruits, Rumple and Eudes, that during the battle, their platoon's job is to blow the whistles, but as soon as the battle concludes, they're to tend the wounded. "Does that include the wounded ogres?" Rumple asks. Blood drains from his face as the Chief answers, "General Darain wants us to take as many captives as possible, for potential bargaining chips. Let the fighters take 'em, but we'll bandage 'em—if we can."

Rumple feels a bit light-headed as the Chief issues him a first aid pack. With a jerk of his thumb, the Chief summons a subordinate to provide Rumple and the Duke with a crash course in first aid—human first aid only, since, as the medic admits, no one knows anything about ogre health.

Head count is taken, then Darain, as senior officer, addresses the entire camp. He's been through more battles than Rumple has baskets of wool. His voice is calm, confident, reassuring, but Rumple suspects that's a front: no battle ever goes as planned. All creatures, no matter their level of intelligence, become unpredictable when fighting for their lives. Darain issues his commands, not because anyone is uninformed—everyone here has known from the beginning what's supposed to happen today—but because laying out the plans so calmly makes them sound logical and therefore controllable. None of these men and women is inexperienced though: they all know war isn't logical.

Then the King speaks, reminding them why this work must be done, for family and friends and farm: he knows that in the last minutes, no soldier thinks of ideals and principles. Side by side, Rumple and Bae exchange a last hopeful smile. "Good luck, Lieutenant Papa." Bae winks before he and the other squires fade back into the woods to keep the horses quiet and keep themselves out of harm's way. Whatever happens today, someone will live to make the report. Rumple casts his gaze to the woods. Bae will live. That's what matters.

A priest finishes the speech making with a prayer, calling on the gods to bless their bows, make the arrows fly true. Rumple finds the benediction bizarre, but some of his fellow guardsmen are kneeling in the trampled snow, heads bent and eyes closed in respect for the prayer.

Then it's time.

The archers, spearmen and swordsmen edge forward along the rim of the canyon. Below, dark hulking forms stir in cold sleep. On the north rim, a silent flag rises, a signal of readiness; flags on the west and east rims answer. A newly recruited private, just turned eighteen last week, takes position beside the King and Darain and thrusts the battalion's green colors into the clearing sky. Rumple and the other appointed whistleblowers set their whistles between their lips. A nod from Darain and the flagger slashes his banner through the air, and Rumple forces the full strength of his breath through the thin metal tube. He can't hear the sound it makes—his hearing hasn't the necessary range—but even if he could, shouts of soldiers charging down the rocky slopes and the protesting roar of the creatures down below would drown out a whistle call. Still, Rumple blows for all he's worth; he has complete faith in the science of the whistle. It's the only thing that makes sense right now as the ogres groan, growl, scream and scatter in every direction, their bare feet pounding the earth like thunder. Boulders are knocked loose, some of them striking flesh, as the monsters flee. Rumple sucks in another breath and blows til he's dizzy, then he pants and watches in amazement as sunlight bounces off silver and blood flies. Their blood is red, Rumple observes, and this saddens him. Shrieks—the ogres' shrieks are as high-pitched as the humans' and the sounds are indistinguishable—assault Rumple's ears as he blows and blows again.

He catches sight of a female scooping up an infant, crushing it against her pendant breasts and stumbling over slippery rock as she seeks an escape. The female—the mother—runs directly into a spear. She drops the baby as an archer emerges beside the spearman. Rumple looks away.

His sight falls upon another female, gathering two adolescents to her side. She spins in a vain attempt to set herself between the youngsters and the archers. A gray-haired male bellows and rushes to her rescue, taking an arrow in the eye, but his sacrifice is pointless: archers and swordsmen finish off the female and as he dies, the male falls onto one of the children, crushing it. Rumple wonders if these were a family or just part of the herd; regardless of the bloodlines, ogres, he concludes, have some of the same virtues as humans.

Still blowing the whistle, he looks around for Maurice to make certain the King is unharmed. He finds His Majesty has breeched the whistle line and has taken up a stand several yards into the canyon. His sword raised, it's obvious he longs to join the battle, but he has to place his kingdom above glory. Still, he is offering himself as the single line of defense for the whistleblowers, should any ogres make it up the canyon wall. Rumple commits the sight to memory, just as he does every observation he can make of the ogres. He will share it all in a letter to Belle.

It goes on, the shrieks and shouts, the fallen bodies, the torn limbs. Men and women he shared tea with this morning collapse; their comrades are not always successful in pulling the injured to safety. Even in the midst of chaos, some of the larger ogres take time to feast on fallen soldiers.

The sun is directly overhead when the last of the shouting fades away. Rumple can hear sobs now, and groans, all of it human. Except for two escapees, the invading ogres have been exterminated. The scourge is over.

A cheer rises and bounces off he canyon walls. Rumple recognizes the voice that led it: Maurice is scrambling down to the canyon floor. Rumple lets his whistle fall on its cord and come to rest on his chest. Exhausted, he begins to turn to the woods to find Bae, but he knows Bae doesn't need him: down there, other soldiers do. He joins his fellow whistleblowers in gathering medical supplies and easing their way to the floor.

His foot slips on a patch of snow as he nears the bottom. When he rests against an outcropping to catch his breath, he hears a rustling, then a muffled cry. "Hang on, soldier," he urges. "I'm coming." He reaches for his water skin. "Thirsty?" Rumple comes around the boulder with a reassuring smile and outstretched hand. "I have med—"

He finds himself face to face with an ogre. A young, weeping ogre.