A slight veil of frost covers the earth from thatched rooftop to grassy swale, making a ghostly scene by moonlight. Hwfa's heart beats in his throat as he winds the crooked road to the hillfort of Camlann. There is rarely audience with the king these days, as Pelles has long since lost interest in the welfare of his people. Old Cadorius Pelles Arimateus, once Dux Dumnonii and known to the Celts as Cado Wledig, is now merely Pelles Hen. He had long been "Governor of the West Country", but his power disappeared when other local, post-Roman chieftains reclaimed their territories. Pelles still clings to what little power he still possesses, living in constant fear of the crown-snatching hands of hostile neighbours and foreigners. Shaking loose the snow from his cloak, Hwfa is brought into Pelles Hen's dismal hall where the vexed king is seen by dim firelight, slumped into his cold, stone-hewn throne. Before the cattle farmer can utter a word of praise to his lord, Pelles croaks out his greeting: "How many black bulls in your field, Hwfa?" Cold beads of sweat gather across Hwfa's scalp, and he brushes his long moustache before replying. "Only one, m'lord." "You lie," Pelles whispers with great effort, shakily pushing himself to his feet. For many long years Pelles has suffered an infirmity from a dolorous stroke that has left him as weak in body as he has always been in spirit. "My lords have seen two bulls in your field!" Hwfa replies calmly. "They've seen my ox, King Pelles." "How can this be?" Pelles narrows his eyes as he staggers forward, a crooked cudgel his walking stick. "Your ox was tribute to Arthur before the first frost." Hwfa knows well that Pelles pays no render to Arthur; the greedy lord is Camelot's nearest neighbour to resist the union of all Britain. Instead, Pelles lies to the people of Camlann, claiming that their double-tribute goes to both himself and to Arthur. The deceiptful king keeps everything for himself, richly feasting with his fat lords nightly. The noble soldiers who had once defended Camlann leave their swords to gather dust while they indulge instead in food, wine, and women. In the meantime, Camlann's tenants are left impoverished and unprotected. But Hwfa, like Pelles, is fearful. He will not do anything to place his family in danger, so he will do what he must to satisfy his lord. "The ox his Arthur's if he wants it." "It's too late for that, Hwfa!" Pelles grumbles, growing impatient. "I want to know what it's doing in your field. It was slaughtered and..." Pelles will not admit that he and his own lords ate the beef themselves. "Where did this ox come from?" "I..." Hwfa will not betray his benefactor. "I cannot say, m'lord." "Will not, more like." With one shaky hand upon the knob of his cudgel, Pelles wraps the other tightly around the hilt of his sword and grits his teeth. "If you value the lives of your --" Pelles's threat is interrupted when the giant doors to the great hall swing open and the steward enters. "Pelles! The south storehouse is ablaze!" With the aid of two henchmen, Pelles is quickly led in a sedan to the storehouse, faithful Hwfa following after. The crowd gathered there gawp at the supernatural, white conflagration that swallows the timber and thatch outbuilding. A shrill, brilliant voice as white-hot as the fire, echoes through Camlann. At the same time a black horse belching flames emerges from the fire and leaps directly towards Pelles. The king, Hwfa, and the courtiers all cry out as they collapse in terror and madly roll about to put out flames that aren't there. It was as if the entire incident had been imagined. The night was quiet. Everyone looked to one another as if to confirm that they had all seen the same thing. The storehouse, which had a moment ago been engulfed in a spectral inferno, was now as it was... except it was completely empty. "Where is my store?" Pelles bellows, falling into a fit of coughing. This particular building had kept all render meant for Arthur (which would never be paid), but Pelles Hen's rage shoved his embarrassment by the wayside. His sword now drawn from its sheath, Pelles holds it tremulously at Hwfa's throat. "What deviltry is at work here?" Hwfa swallows hard, tears of capitulation emerging in his eyes. "It was the Pwca, my lord." The Pwca. Pelles had heard of this malevolent spirit before. To simple folk it is a merry mischief-maker. But tyrants it has terrorized, driven to madness, and murdered.