The familiar, solid weight of trusted iron in his right hand did more for Vilon's humor than anything else he had received over the past week.
He swung his longsword against a hay-stuffed training dummy with a grunt that took all of his air. The steel slashed through the rough burlap, sending a shower of dry straw flying into the air like woodchips splintering off a shattered shield in the heat of a battle.
Stepping into his footing, he followed with an horizontal arc that sliced right through the charcoal-traced smile drawn on the dummy's face, before ending it through with a swift lunging thrust straight into its belly.
