Dead of Knight (Chapter #1) *First Draft

Hello! This is the first chapter of my work-in-progress "Dead of Knight," A zombie story based off of a fantasy medieval era. Please give as much feedback as you can so I can make this story better. Thanks ^^

Chapter #1

         Sweat poured down Artâs face as he speared the ground with his shovel, throwing another heap of dirt and stone over his shoulder. He had been working since the sun first rose over the mountains, and now it shined brilliantly in the mid-afternoon sky. The clouds floated gently by as the wind rustled the leaves of the tree behind him. The air was getting cold, for summer was coming to an end and fall arriving to take its place. Which meant winter was not far behind. But the cool air felt good on Artâs hot skin, and he shivered slightly as sweat trickled cold down his back.
         Digging his boots into the side of the dirt wall, Art grunted as he pulled himself out of the hole and rolled over onto his back under the tree. Closing his eyes, he stretched and enjoyed the feeling of the grass on his head and arms, and the relief of not being on his feet. Being of seventeen years of age, he was of a skinny built, with long legs covered in dark pants and leather boots. A dirtied linen shirt covered his chest and messy black hair skewed his face. Opening his dark eyes to the sky above, he watched as the leaves above him danced and swayed, patches of light shining through the branches like bright stars. He was very content on just sleeping the rest of the afternoon away.
          But âthere was no rest for the wicked,â as his grandfather had once told him, who had died two winters ago. And the sun would soon set behind the mountains, casting their great shadows over the valley. So, with a sigh, he stood up, dusted himself, and picked up his shovel. Looking down at the hole, Art inspected his work. It was a fairly deep hole, large enough for a person to lie in it comfortably. Laughing to himself grimly, Art was sure old man Harold would have been happy with his handy work, if he was still alive to see it for himself anyway. For the man had told his family that he wanted to be buried under the very tree where he first proposed to his lovely wife Cahna, who was still in mourning over the death of her husband.
         Art had been working in the village graveyard since he was old enough to work. His father was the owner of the townâs only bar, as well as its brewer. He'd have sailors restock his supply of ingredients and goods to make beer and mead for the local men of the town, for a price of course. Art never really cared for working in the pub, and much preferred quitter jobs. So when the townâs Keeper, the watchmen of the graveyard, was looking for an extra pair of hands, Art wasted no time applying for the job. He liked working with his hands, but he didnât care for people too much. So the job seemed perfect. To him at least. Many people, including his father, disliked him working in the graveyard. They called it âunnatural.â Art paid little mind to their complaints.
         Jumping back down into the pit, Art grabbed his shovel and began his work once again, digging and smoothing out the dirt walls. He found the work relaxing, and it kept his mind of things. More than once, a thick tree root stuck out from the wall, gnarled and twisted. With a strong thrust, Art wedged the blade of the shovel at the stubborn root, pulling twisting it until it came off with a snap. Tossing the now ruined root over his shoulder and into the pile, he continued his work. As he labored, the day grew old as the sun slowly sank into the sky, the tips of the surrounding mountains barely touching it. Shadows began to lengthen, and the air grew colder. Finally, when the sun disappeared just behind the tip of the mountain, illuminating the white capped tops in a brilliant array of light, did Art climb out of the hole and made his way down the hill, glad the day was over.
         Hoisting the shovel over his shoulder, Art made his way down the dirt road, passing rows of stones glowing pale in the setting sun. As he walked, he couldnât help but glance at the stones. Many of the stones were either old or broken, or their names were worn with wind and age, so they were very hard to read. It was a fairly old graveyard, according to Carow, the Keeper. âOld as time itself,â the old man used to joke. âAnd I daresay older than that.â Art soon arrived at the bottom of the great hill, where a little wooden shack with a shabby front porch stood. On its side was a hut filled with tools hung on nails, and a workbench laden with chipped and broken stone. And on the porch in a squeaking rocking chair was Carow himself, smoking a long black wood pipe, puffs of smoke floating from his tight lips, his hair thin like cobwebs. His nose resembled that of knurled roots of a tree, and his eyes were small, but bright.
         âYou finished digging that hole for Howard?â He croaked as Art hung the shovel on an iron hook inside the shack.
         âOf course I didâ replied Art, closing the shack and turning to Carow. âI think he would be very happy with it, if he could see it for himself. The hole is a little small though, not much room on top of that hill, especially with those roots.â
         Carow chuckled, flashing his teeth, many were missing. âAh well, canât be helped. Thatâs what Howard wanted, and it sits right with me knowing he can rest in peace without complaint. He was a dear old friend to many here in the village, so Iâm sure they all feel the same way. Besides, the family had already dropped off their payment for his burial.â He pulled a small purse from inside his cloak and tossed it to Art. Coins clinked as the purse landed in his hands.
         âMuch obliged,â said Art, shaking the purse with a grin. âMy old man will be happy to know Iâm making my own.â
         Carowâs eyes narrowed as he took another pull from his pipe before asking âwhy did you want to work here anyway?â Art frowned and cocked his head. Carow continued âIâm well aware your father is not happy with you working here, and to be honest, I can see his reasoning. You could make much more working in his tavern, and instead, you choose to dig holes for an old croak like me.â He chuckled as he took another pull from his pipe and blew a smoke that broke in the passing breeze.
         âI donât know,â said Art, watching the smoke twist and turn as it floated away into nothing. âI never did like being around too many people, and most of the time I never had anything in common with them anyway.â
         âAnd yet here you are, surrounded by everyone.â Carow waved a thin hand towards the stones.
         Art laughed. âMaybe so, but they arenât a lively bunch. So I donât mind their company. Besides, they are all great listeners.â Carow and Art laughed and then with a wave of farewell, Art left down the road, leaving Carow to his smoking pipe. The sun had completely vanished behind the mountains, outlining them in a pale fiery glow. But Art knew the way, even in the slowly fading light; he had walked the path so many times before. Through the brief thicket of wood, past a steep hill that lead to a small creak below, and finally through a naturally made opening of branches and leaves that lead him to the outskirts of the village. Huts made of stacked stone and tiled roofs dotted the very outside of town, their shutters made of old wood. Warm light could be seen flowing out of the cracks of the windows, as gray smoke rose up into the sky. It was nearly time for supper, and Art loved the smell of cooking fires.
         As he made his way inward, the houses started to align themselves until at last, they formed a wide dirt street, houses and shops on each side of the road. These houses were more strongly built, and glass windows showed off what was going inside. Many families were gathered together, talking and laughing. Fathers and their sons could be seen outside, chopping and gathering fresh firewood, while mothers and their daughter tended the fire, or were outside washing dishes or hanging clothes to dry. Stray cats and dogs could be seen lurking around in the shadows of the houses, while the occasional chicken pecked at the ground.
         Making his way into town, more people could be seen walking the streets, cheering merrily or talking in hushed voices. One or two of the older men, wearing ragged and dirty clothes, could be seen stumbling about, a near empty bottle in their wrapped hands. Women giggled and gossiped as they leaned in close for whispered chat, only to burst into a fit of quiet laughter. The occasional solider wearing dirtied silver armor walked by, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his stern eyes looking for any signs of mischief; the town had a bit of a thieving problem. More often than naught, most of the men were sailors, talking in great loud voices of their recent or old tales of the sea, or bragging about how many drinks they had consumed or woman they had bedded the night before.
         Being a port town, Art had seen many people come and go; there was hardly a face that stayed in town for more than a week before pressing on. The entire valley was surrounded by mountains, and there were only two ways one could leave the valley. The first was the many paths that lead to the mountain, some going up and through the mountain and over the crags. Many traders would take these roads from the southern cities, like Anvil or Fletch, although no one has seen anyone come from that road for many a month. The second was by sea, and this was as difficult a path as through the mountains. For the mountains stretched far across the valley, and out into the ocean, forming a large bay where the villageâs port stood.
         The large rocks surrounding the bay helped protect the port from incoming waves and wind. And it allowed passing ships who were traveling along the coast to pull in safely without incident. But they were the only port around for miles, and the next closest port was several leagues down the southern coast and toward the larger cities. But this made business very strained, especially among merchants. Food, supplies, and among other things, were readily available in the valley. But other materials, such as metal, tools, and spices, could only be found through the passing merchants and sailors who wanted to sell their cargo. Fights often broke out on the streets of the market of unfair deals as well as accusing of counterfeit coin and poor quality of goods.
         Nearing the center of town, Art stopped at a large hut, where smoke and steam could be seen pouring out from under its overhang. Standing on one knee, hammering a molten piece of metal, was Raland, an ebony skinned man, who was the valleyâs blacksmith. His great bulging arms were covered in tattoos and writings in a language that Art did not understand. He wore a large black leather apron and his muscles rippled through his shirt as he struck the metal with a large hammer. Sparks glinted as the hammer landed, causing them to shoot up into the air and die as they fell. Raland stuck the molten metal into a barrel of water, where it steamed and popped loudly, before looking up and seeing Art. Smiling broadly, he cried âArt! My good lad, how have you been?â His voice was low, but filled with a kind warmth.
         âIâm good sir,â replied Art, leaning on a wooden beam, his hands in his pockets. âThat shovel you made works wonders, it cuts through the ground like a hot knife through butter.â
         Raland chucked as he pulled out the metal and set it to the side before sitting on a polished wooden stump he used for a chair. âIâm just happy the people here can appreciate my work. Itâs not easy being a blacksmith when materials are hard to come by, and there is little demand for anything but minor repairs.â Art nodded in understanding. There were no wars currently going on, as far as they knew; news traveled slowly, even with the passing merchants. So there was no great demand for spears, swords, armor, or any kind of war gear to make, except for the occasional repair for a traveling mercenary.
         âHowâs the wife?â Art asked, nodding to the hut behind them. Inside, lights flickered and danced, followed by a light humming.
         Raland smiled broadly. âShe is wonderful. And soon she will be a proud mother.â
         Artâs eyes opened in surprise âyou mean_?â Raland nodded and placed a fist over his chest. Art smiled and clasped Raland in a hug. Raland laughed merrily and roughly hugged him back, his great arms almost crushing Artâs sides. Slightly wincing, Art stepped back and said âIâm very happy for you Raland. I think youâll make a great father. Stop in by the tavern and weâll have a drink to celebrate. First round is on me.â
âIâll hold you to that,â laughed Raland and resumed his work. With renewed vigor, Art made his way down the street and finally, arrived at a bustling tavern. Being the only tavern in the area, it was always filled with loud cheer and shouts. Outside its door, woman, dressed in long flowing, but low cut, gowns, loitered by the door, winking and sighing at men as they walked passed.
âOh look ladies, itâs our favorite digger,â teased a curly brown haired woman, her emerald green dress matching her round eyes. She swayed as she strode to Art, who couldnât help but hide a smile. She was very pretty after all.
âHello Tanya,â said Art, watching as the girl swayed in place. âAny good business deals today?â
She pursed her lips in a fake pouty face and said âNo, I havenât. All the men here donât seem to care for a young lady who wants nothing more than a good time.â She suddenly smiled and noticed the small bag of coins in Artâs hand. âMaybe I can show you a good timeâ she purred, gently walking closer. âA little coin for me, and in return, I can promise a wonderful night of getting to know each other. Intimately.â She added with a sly wink.
Art shook his head, not swayed in the least. âSorry, but this is for something a bit more personal. I canât waste it on,â he paused then added âself-indulgences.â
âOh poo,â Tanya sighed, putting on a barely believable sad face. âFine, go spend your coin on that flower girl you like so much. See if I care.â
Artâs face turned a slight shade as he avoided her eyes. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â He said sheepishly.
âOh donât give me that,â Tanya snapped. âI see the way you look at her.â But her expression softened and she sincerely smiled. âI do wish you the best of luck though. She is a sweet girl, and deserves a good man.â She turned and walked away, but not before adding âcome find me if you need any tips for the cot.â Art felt his face grow hot and ducked inside the tavern, ignoring the giggles of the woman as he pushed by.
The inside of the bar was filled with cheer and mirth. A man wearing a long robe with and hat and a feather played a long necked mandolin in the corner, a cup filled with coin at his feet. Men cheered and laughed as they drunk and sang in slurred voices. A light haze filled the air; a few of the men were smoking pipes. Others could be seen leaned in close, speaking in hushed voices. Maidens could be seen carrying trays of food around and mugs of beer, avoiding the wandering eyes of the men as they passed, who looked on with a deep longing. A tall brute of a man was behind the bar, polishing a mug with a rag. Tattoos ran up and down his arms, and his big great arms seemed to loom from his great round belly. He was bald, but wore a thick red mustache that twitched with each breath. His stern eyes scanned the tavern, the edges of his mouth twitched. âYour late,â the man grunted, as Art walked up to the bar and pulled up a stool. For this man was obviously his father, Dermont.
âSorry,â said Art, accepting a mug his father had passed him. âWas talking with Raland. He was just telling me his wife should be expecting soon.â
âHeâs a good man,â Dermont said, pouring a mug of beer from a great wooden barrel behind him. âBut itâs going to be hard raising a child when it is so close to winter.â
âHeâll pull through,â said Art re-assuring. âThe merchants should be arriving any day now, especially with the Harvest festival so close at hand.â
âSpeaking of which,â his father said with a small grin, looking at Art. âHave you asked that young lass to accompany you yet?â
Art blushed and avoided his fatherâs gaze. âIâm working on it,â he said quietly.
Demont chuckled. âWell you better get a move on. Saw a couple young lads talking to her the other day. And if you donât make a move, someone will.â Art said nothing as he finished his beer and handed the mug back to his father. Throwing the mug into a metal tub of foamy water, Demont walked away, attending a man who demanded another round for him and his friends. Art sat and quietly listened to the conversations that floated around the tavern. Most of the conversations were about business and tales of past adventures. Art had never left the valley, so he was always eager to hear about the happenings of the world.
âDid you hear Pinewatch got attacked by bandits?â He heard a sailor say, a gruff man with a several scars running down his cheek. âAttacked right in the middle of broad daylight. Army went to go check it out and were ambushed themselves.â
âThatâs not what I heard,â said another, his nose cocked to the side. Must have been broken and never healed properly. âI heard it was attacked by some ravenous animals. Claw and bite marks all over the people. They say the people went rabid themselves and attacked the army.â
âOh come now,â said their captain, a wide man with a wiry beard. âDo you honestly believe a group of animals attacked a village in broad daylight? I say it was the damn rebels again. They have been causing nothing but mischief in the eastern plains.â
âThen how do you explain the disappearances then?â Said the first man. âStories Iâve been hearing is that village gets attacked, army goes to check it out, and neither are seen again.â He took a drink from his mug before he continued. âSome strange magic at work there, if you ask me.â
âOh sure,â said the second man, waving his hand. âNext youâre going to be telling me the long lost clan of Macha has been found.â
The first man elbowed his comrade in the side âHey, you canât tell me being captured by a group of nothing but woman doesnât sound like a good time.â
âEnough you two,â said the captain irritably. âFinish your drinks and letâs get back to the ship. I want to leave while we still have the tide.â With that, they downed their beer and left, throwing a few gold coins on the table. Art quietly watches as they got up and left, pondering what he had just heard. Pinewatch was a small village about a half a dayâs travel south of the valley. Many traders used to come from there with supplies such as lumber or crops. Could the attack be the reason why no one has come up through the mountains for some time?
Shrugging it off, he made his way around the bar, and through a large wooden door on the side wall. Opening it, it revealed a narrow staircase that led to the floors above. Closing the door behind him, he wearily made his way up the stairs, the boards groaning with each step he took. Arriving at the top, he turned and unlocked another door with a small iron key from his pocket. Inside was a small room with a cot on one side and a shelf on the other, the shelf stacked with books and rolls of paper. The walls were bare except for a small window that looked out into the town. Kicking off his boots, Art collapsed onto the cot. He closed his eyes and gently let his mind wander until with a nod, he fell asleep, dreaming of a blue coast and white shores.