The Dark Griffin by K. J. Taylor Page A

small girl by the hand. “We didn’t find anyone else on this floor, sir,” he said.
    The man at the table still hadn’t moved. “I demand to know what’s going on!” he shouted.
    “Are you Craddick Arnson?” said Arren.
    “Yes, what’s happening?”
    “You’re under arrest for smuggling and dealing in stolen goods,” said Arren.
    The guards were already coming forward to seize him. He made a brief attempt to fight them off, but was overpowered and manacled in moments.
    “You can’t do this!” he yelled. “I haven’t done anything—”
    “That’s not my problem,” said Arren. “That’s up to the reeve to decide. But you can make it easier on yourself by telling us where the goods are and whether there’s anyone else in the house.”
    “You’re insane!” the woman said suddenly. “This is ridiculous. He hasn’t done anything, we’re just—”
    Arren waved her into silence. “Perhaps you should have had a look in your cellar recently. Could you show me where the door to it is, please? I haven’t got all day.”
    The woman sagged slightly. “Fine. If it’ll convince you we haven’t done anything, I’ll do whatever you say.”
    The man, Craddick, tried to get to her. “Rose—”
    “What?” she said sharply. “You haven’t done anything, and the sooner we get this over with the better.” She turned to Arren. “It’s this way . . . sir.”
    “Let her go,” said Arren to the guards. “Bring him, too. And make sure the child is out of the way.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The woman led them into a back room, where there were a number of barrels and crates stacked. “There,” she said, pointing at a large wooden box. “It’s under that.”
    “Why is that blocking the cellar door?” said Arren.
    “There was no room for it anywhere else,” said the woman. “It’s not very heavy.”
    Bran shoved the crate aside without much effort. There was a woven straw mat on the floor. When he lifted that away, it revealed a trapdoor. In spite of the fact that it had been covered over, it had very clearly seen a lot of use recently; the hinges were new and well oiled, and the door itself was in good condition.
    “Right,” said Arren. “Get those two out of here. I’m going in.” He waited until the prisoners had been hustled out of the room and then hooked the toe of his boot into the iron ring on the trapdoor. He lifted it high enough to get his boot underneath and then kicked it open. One of the guards had handed him a lantern, and he took the covers off and stepped down into the gloom, sword in hand.
    The cellar was about half as big as the house above it. Arren caught a brief glimpse of stacks of crates and sacks, and then something cannoned into him, knocking him over. He landed awkwardly on his back, dropping the lantern, and scrambled upright in time to see a man shove past Bran and bolt out of the room. Arren ran after him as fast as he could, with Bran close behind him. The guards in the dining room with Craddick and his wife ran to stop the fleeing smuggler, but Craddick suddenly rose up and shoved one of them aside, giving his friend time to get past. He ran for the front door. Arren tripped over the fallen guard and nearly fell, and then—
    Eluna was there. The griffin burst through the doorway, screeching, rearing up on her hind legs. The smuggler screamed and turned to run, but Eluna’s talons slammed into his back, knocking him down; before he could even struggle, her beak struck him in the back of the neck, killing him instantly.
    There was silence for a moment. The guards hauled Craddick to his feet, thumping him in the stomach to subdue him. Rose was screaming.
    “Get her out of here,” Arren snapped. The guards obeyed, leading her out of the room as Eluna tore the dead man’s arm from his shoulder and threw back her head—swallowing it whole.
    Arren strode toward her. “Stop it!”
    Eluna turned her head toward him, beak dripping blood, and hissed warningly. Arren put