– Are the opponents ready?
The young man nodded meaningfully, his expression fierce and predatory, staring intently into Ned's eyes. His whole demeanor expressed hostility and contempt, as if he were about to rush into battle and crush the insolent mage, the commoner who dared to infiltrate the holy of holies—Zamar's officer academy!
Ned tried to hide an involuntary smile – was this fool thinking to intimidate him? Far greater men had tried to intimidate, and not only that – and what had happened? Things had gone very, very badly for them. When would the nobles calm down, when would they stop testing his mettle? What was this duel? The fourth? Or the fifth? Hmm… he'd lost count. He recalled his opponents – their faces merged into one menacing grimace… True, there were some among the nobles who treated Ned with friendship. But the majority of them displayed bewilderment, disgust, irritation, and aggression. If not for General Heverad, who had recommended not to kill opponents, all the participants in the previous duels would have been lying in the damp earth. Ned would have killed them as easily as a cat catches a half-dead mouse bitten during play.
The first one escaped with bruises. Ned lashed him with his sword – the flat of it.
The second one has a scar on his cheek.
The third one earned the same as the first one.
The fourth... In short, they got it and went on their way, disgraced, angry, muttering vague threats under their breath.
Ned shivered—it was chilly. The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon, and its first rays touched his cheek, caressing it like warm, soft hands.
Ned loved the warmth and hated getting up so early. Why the hell did these aristocrats love to have stupid duels so early in the morning? They could have a proper, dignified day of school, have dinner, and then head to the park to receive their share of beatings! But no—they had to rise before dawn and trudge to the clearing, shaking the night's dew from the thick grass, shivering in the morning breeze, and... receive the same thing—a beating! I wish this stupid spectacle would end soon.
Ned desperately longed for a cup of hot broth with crackers, and also for an invigorating herbal tea with candy. He hadn't had the chance to enjoy sweets as a child, and now he preferred them to all other treats—he drank the hot broth with great relish, nibbling on the candy. The food at the school that trained officers was quite good. However, with the money the school received for each student, the cadets should have been carried on their backs. Training to become an officer cost so much that a simple peasant or artisan wouldn't have earned it in a lifetime.
Ned was paid for by the Marine Corps, represented by General Heverad, so Ned got everything for free. Why? He would have to ask the general. But Ned knew the reason. Heverad, commander of the armed forces of the kingdom of Zamar, wanted to create a new class of warriors—battlemages. True battlemages, not the parody they were now. And Ned also suspected that Heverad wanted the ultimate weapon—a demonologist mage, which Ned was. Well, not quite—there was practically no magic left in him.
Ned was "scorched"—he once tried to cast a spell too powerful for him, and it burned him out, meaning he lost his ability to cast magic. Whether this was permanent or not, no one knew. There were cases where his abilities returned. But there were also cases where the "scorched" remained a commoner forever.
However, even if Ned hadn't become a mage again, he couldn't be called a mere man. One day, he accidentally discovered an artifact of immense power, activated it, and introduced a "parasite" into his brain—a copy of the essence of an ancient black mage and demonologist named Yuragor. The copy attempted to take control of Ned's body, but was dissolved within the boy's brain, leaving behind knowledge and skills, both magical and non-magical.
The members of the Shirduan sect were renowned for more than just their ability to summon and control demons. They were mighty, invincible fighters, and the most powerful among them were the Atrocs—warrior-mages, led by Yuragor. Everything Yuragor knew, everything he could do, was now Ned's property. And although he couldn't yet use his knowledge of powerful, high-ranking spells, his future lay ahead. Ned believed that his ability to cast spells would return.
Ned's studies at the school, where he had already been for about a month, were disappointing. Drills, memorization of regulations, fencing and horseback riding lessons, and physical training classes—these constituted the core of officer training. Other subjects were taught sparingly and fragmentarily; it was believed that a future officer had no need for disciplines unrelated to military affairs. Let learned mages figure out where everything in this world came from. A soldier's and an officer's job is to fight. That was the school's leadership's view.
In other words, the cadets were being trained as dull-witted bulls, capable of raising their horns to the enemy. No, of course, they were taught military science. The cadets studied ancient battles, analyzing their successes and defeats, mastered all types of weapons, and memorized the methods of conducting military operations, such as, for example, city sieges. But... this wasn't enough—at least for Ned. He wanted to know more. And what they taught him, Ned knew better than the teachers, because Yuragor's memory contained so much, so much knowledge... So what was the point of school? Well, how else could one earn the coveted officer's badge and continue to climb the social ladder? Without school, it was impossible. Without school, Ned had already reached the peak of his career, becoming a junior officer—a sergeant.
Ned rose from a shepherd in the village of Black Ravine, a foundling living as a slave, to a sergeant in the Marine Corps, the finest unit in the Zamar army. For his exceptional service, he was promoted to sergeant by General Heverad, then a colonel and commander of the Marine Corps.
Neda had been through a lot—he'd married Sanda Nitul, fought in the war, become a powerful black magician and demonologist, only to lose his magical powers. He'd turned the remnants of the ancient Shirduan sect against him, destroying those sent to kill him. He'd been through a lot, and there was still more to come...
Now he stood, illuminated by the morning sun, and smiled slightly, looking at how his opponent glared at him angrily with his gray eyes, deep-set in dark sockets.
This senior is one of the school's most skilled swordsmen, a winner of the school competition, and holder of the Golden Sword. It seems he was deliberately set upon Ned. Whether he was hired for money or convinced to take the insolent fellow down a peg or two remains to be seen. The outcome is certain: a fight is about to begin, and it's unlikely to end bloodlessly.
"Gentlemen! Do you insist on a duel to the death?" The voice of the duel's master of ceremonies, also a senior, was dull, colorless, and boring. He openly yawned, looking with regret at the first-year who had dared to challenge the champion. But what could Ned do? The first-year had come up during recess and simply slapped Ned—in front of all the cadets, eagerly watching the proceedings. So what was left? Challenge the boy to a duel. Naturally, the senior had chosen the place and time, as well as the weapon—swords—nothing new, nothing surprising. For some reason, these people still couldn't believe that Ned was as superior to them in weaponry as they were to a five-year-old child in martial arts.
"Yes," Ned's opponent said, "to the death!"
"I'm not insisting," Ned said boredly, "I'll just agree to cripple you."
"Cripple?" the enemy twitched his jaw. "You insolent brute! Fine! First I'll cripple you, and then I'll kill you! And don't think that just because you've had some luck in our previous duels that you can defeat me!"
"Ah, so that's it," Ned chuckled quietly, "they told him I won by accident. Actually, I feel sorry for the cadet, and Heverad asked for it..."
"Boy," Ned began calmly, "if you apologize, we'll stop the duel. I don't know you, and I don't want to. What's got into you that you're so mad? We've never even met!"
"What difference does it make to you?" the guy grimaced. "Fight or die!"
"Oh, gods... How many lofty words you speak," Ned shook his head, adjusting his grip on the sword hilts, covered in the rough skin of some sea creature. Even when his palm sweated, it didn't slip along the long black hilts. The ancient masters knew how to make weapons, especially these—demonic swords, each containing a demon, bound within the blade by Ned's will.
"Since reconciliation is impossible, then come together, gentlemen!" the master of ceremonies declared, sitting down on a rock beneath a tall tree and watching with interest as the opponents slowly approached each other. Ned glanced around; he'd noticed earlier that they weren't alone in the park. Spectators—the school's cadets—peeked out from behind the bushes, their eyes shining, trying to absorb every moment of the duel. This was a fight not to be missed! They'd talk for years about how they'd defeated the arrogant wizard.
Ned's opponent was tall—almost as tall as Ned himself. He was also thin and sinewy. His long arms hung almost to his knees—a good build for a swordsman. With such long arms, he could reach his opponent from afar, and when you add to that his incredible speed, stamina, and the strength of a bull, he had a true swordsman. The perfect fighter.
He'd made only one mistake—he'd gone up against Ned. And this time, Ned wasn't about to forgive his mistakes. He was tired of the constant pestering, the stupid challenges to duels, the constant aggression. This time, Ned was going to kill his opponent. Let them be afraid. They didn't like him anyway, and Ned had no chance of winning the friendship of his "comrades." So why bother?
A long, straight sword, half a palm longer than Ned's, and a straight dagger with sword-breaking notches on the back—that was the enemy's weapon. He grinned at Ned's rune-encrusted blades, quite light in comparison to his massive steel shaft.
Ned knew that if he tried to defend himself against the mighty blow of such a sword with a normal blade, it would snap like a match. His opponent was probably hoping for just that, because his first blows were terrifying, stunning, designed more to shatter the blade than to reach Ned's body.
But demon swords are practically indestructible while a demon resides within them. They don't dull or break, and despite their apparent lightness and fragility, they are in fact the most formidable weapons in their class.
Ned fended off his opponent's blows with effortless movements and enjoyed life—why not? Alive, healthy, the sun was shining. Now he'd kill this guy and go have breakfast.
The thought of breakfast filled his mouth with saliva, and Ned spat to the side. His opponent noticed and frowned even more – the enemy was spitting! Such disdain?!
And the tempo of the fight increased sharply. The massive sword fluttered like a butterfly over a pond, as if it weighed nothing, and Ned was truly amazed – the guy really was good. He'd ruin his new uniform like that; it was time to put an end to him.
Ned also increased his pace, and the opponents' movements merged into a misty cloud, from which a ringing sound emanated, as if someone were thrashing an iron rod against a signal beam, warning of danger. Ned's movements were soft, ingratiating—he didn't break through his opponent's defenses as his opponent did, but rather blended into their movements, his swords like palms, accepting the heavy blade.
The opponent was already starting to get angry, his face turning red – how could he, the tournament winner, not be able to handle a peasant?! This mage, this commoner, this scum?
Ned could have killed him at the very beginning of the fight. But he hesitated. He simply couldn't bring himself to do it, and that was that! After all, Heverad had asked him not to, and Ned was used to respecting his opinion. So what now? The solution was obvious: wound the enemy so badly that he couldn't continue the fight and conceded defeat. Of course, that was more difficult than simply killing the guy with a lightning-fast, fatal blow, especially since he truly was a master swordsman.
Clash-clash-clash… zzzin! – The sword slid along the enemy's hand, ripped open his wrist and hissed, absorbing blood and life.
Ned immediately felt a jolt, a surge of energy—every enemy wound brought Ned health, vigor, and strength. The demons, feeding on the life energy of living beings, transferred some of it to the Master.
The opponent paled and stepped back, nearly dropping the sword from his severed hand. He dropped the dagger, grabbed the sword with his left hand, and attacked Ned again. Ned, still fighting back, ostentatiously sheathed the short sword-dagger known as the Left. He stood there for a few seconds, parrying the blows, which had noticeably weakened and were not very precise, then suddenly, with tremendous force and speed, he struck twice – the first knocked the sword from the boy's hand, the second ripped his shirt open, causing the cut to swell with blood. A slight movement, and the sword settled comfortably on the neck of the stunned opponent, who froze as if petrified.
The blade, adorned with ancient golden runes, seemed to tremble, yearning to drink blood—to drink deeply. What the demon had already taken was not enough. The Master had not fed the demon in a long time, and it was very, very angry. Soon, if the demon was not given enough food, the Master would get what he got. He himself would become food.
Ned looked into the pale, pursed-liped boy's eyes, sighed, and regretfully sheathed his blade, realizing he was making a mistake. He should have killed this man, to find peace. But... that's what Yuragor would have done. And not everything Yuragor tries to do serves as an example. Ned isn't Yuragor.
"Well, maybe you'll apologize after all?" Ned asked in a bored tone, glancing at the morning sun gilding the treetops. "Or are you insisting on a duel to the death?"
"My apologies," the boy croaked hoarsely, looking down at the ground and clutching the cut on his chest. "If you don't mind, the fight is over."
"Okay," Ned nodded in agreement, "apology accepted. By the way, you're a magnificent swordsman. Congratulations."
"Are you kidding me?" the guy's eyes flashed. "Isn't it enough for you that you beat me?"
"Gods forbid!" Ned said, genuinely surprised. "I truly think you're a magnificent master, and I enjoyed fighting you. No one I've faced in combat so far could hold a candle to you. And I've faced many. Correction: almost no one..."
Ned remembered the Master who had taught him swordsmanship in a distant provincial town. Tiraz would have beaten this guy, for sure.
"That's strange," the boy replied, confused, holding up the ripped shirt on his chest. "But they told me you were a village idiot who could barely hold a sword. And that you'd insulted the honor of the officer corps and needed to be punished. So, they set me up?"
"You know what," Ned suggested, "let's go see a doctor now, get your scratches treated, and then we'll go to the tavern, grab a glass of beer, sit and talk, discuss the situation, and generally talk about life. If you don't mind, of course. If you don't mind sitting next to a commoner."
"Well... let's go," the boy drawled. "My name is Harald. I'm from Shorokan."
"I'm Ned the Black, in case you didn't know," Ned smiled. "Aren't the Shorokans the same ones who led the Battle of Nius two hundred years ago? When Zamar fought Isfir and won with a small force?"
"Yes," Harald smiled, "you know? Well, yes, we were taught that. I come from a long line of soldiers. Oh!" He shuddered and staggered. "My head is spinning. I don't feel quite right. I must have lost a lot of blood. The scratches are small, worse have happened, but it feels like all the blood has been drained out of me. I'll call my brother, do you mind? There he is, peeking out from behind the bushes. Let him pick up the sword, my hands are giving out."
"Of course!" thought Ned. "The demon must have sucked a lot of life energy out of you. The creature's hungry."
- Of course! Call him. Let's go to the doctor. The school doctor?
"No. Tom's only for treating horses," Harald shook his head. "There's a healer nearby, a very good one, a healer-mage. We need to go there. He'll heal scratches quickly."
"Yes," confirmed a boy of about fifteen, picking up a sword and sheathing it in a black lacquered sheath. "We go there all the time. The guy's a bit of a jerk and a grump, but he knows his stuff and charges quite a bit less than the doctors downtown."
"I'll introduce you—my brother, born Shorokan, named Isador. You could call him Isa. Isa, let me lean on you—I'm not feeling well." Harald winced again and leaned heavily on the shoulder his brother readily offered. "Well, shall we go? Shassar, thank you for your help!" Harald turned to the duel master, who nodded, rising from the stone. "I owe you one! Someday we'll have a drink at the inn, on me."
"No problem, we'll sit," Chassard smiled and strode easily along the path toward the park's exit. The cadets followed him, emerging from the thicket one by one. Ned counted about thirty people right off the bat, and they kept popping up like worms after a rainstorm, until he lost count at the fortieth spectator.
"How many of them are there?!" Ned muttered, no longer paying attention to the curious people looking back at the slowly walking trio.
"Heh-heh, half the school's probably here," Isador laughed cheerfully. "What an epic fight! They'll talk about it all year long! Hara's a famous figure, a champion, and how you managed to defeat him is mind-boggling! Can you tell me where you learned this art? I understand swordplay; I've been practicing since childhood. My grandfather teaches him, just like Hara did."
"Doesn't your father teach you?" Ned asked absently, looking around. Something about the surrounding landscape clearly displeased him; there was something elusive, incomprehensible, irritating to the fighter's senses.
"No father," the boy explained simply, "he died while hunting. Some animal attacked and tore him to pieces. But we don't believe it was an animal. My father couldn't have succumbed to some animal. They killed him."
"Who killed him?" Ned raised an eyebrow, but the boy didn't have time to answer. Suddenly, several armed men, swords in hand, sprang out of the bushes in front of them. Their faces were wrapped in dark cloth, and their clothing was no different from that worn by residents of the capital. If you ignored the short swords, very reminiscent of Ned's, you might have thought they were vendors selling greens, pies, or idle citizens who had stopped in the city park for some fresh air.
The strangers didn't waste time talking - silently, without any unnecessary sounds or movements, they attacked the three guys, cutting through the air with blades that sparkled in the morning sun.
The Right and Left seemed to appear in Ned's hands automatically, and the first two attackers immediately fell at his feet, covered in blood and twitching in death throes. Blood sang in Ned's veins, the life energy transmitted by "his" demons invigorated him, boosting his strength and speed so much that the attackers' movements seemed so slow, so banal, as if a little girl had attacked a martial artist with a paper fan, expecting a quick victory.
Zzzin! Clash! Clash! – a corpse. Clash! Zzzin! Chvak! – the attacker's head seemed to separate from his shoulders on its own and rolled along the ground, blinking its surprised eyes goodbye.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harald fighting off two strangers with his left hand, protecting his brother, who was peeking out from behind his back and trying to stab the enemy somewhere in the groin with a dagger.
The two were down in three seconds—Ned didn't give them the slightest chance, cutting each of them almost in half. Suddenly, the attackers vanished, disappearing behind the trees—in an organized manner, just as silently, making no attempt to retrieve their fighters. Five dead men lay on the ground, in varying states of dismemberment.
Ned, his gaze unwavering, scanned the trees and bushes of the park, and within seconds felt the danger had passed. The feeling was elusive, incomprehensible, but Ned knew: they were gone. The enemies were gone. How did he sense it? Who knows? Perhaps his lost ability to hear people's thoughts was beginning to resurface, or perhaps Yuragor's vast experience as a perfect killer was aiding him. It was unknown. But the fact remains—Ned had once again escaped an attack by the Shirduan sect fighters. For a long, long time, they had remained silent, and now—the moment had arrived.
Ned frowned and cursed – he should have dealt with Shirduan long ago. It was clear they wouldn't let him go! What the hell had he done to start this? It was a good thing they attacked now, though. He'd fed the demons in his swords, and also mended fences with Harald and his brother. Standing shoulder to shoulder against enemies is a bonding experience.
Ned leaned over the nearest corpse and rummaged through his pockets—no money, no items indicating the killer's sectarian affiliation. True, Shirduan never had any special markings indicating his affiliation with the Death cult. All those tattoos that denoted affiliation with a specific cult—like those of the priests of the goddess of love, for example, or the worshipers of the god of war—were considered foolish in Shirduan. Why show off your true identity to the world? The strength of a Shirduan fighter lies in stealth, in inescapable lethality, and no one should know that that good-natured greengrocer is actually a sectarian, while that sweet baker is a brutal killer, capable of dispatching a man three times her weight and strength with a single wave of her hand.
All that was valuable among the dead bodies lying there were swords.
The two boys watched, their eyes wide, as Ned methodically went through the pockets of the dead men, and when he was finished, Harald said:
- I'm sorry. It's our fault.
"Why 'sorry'?" Ned asked, surprised. "What does this have to do with you?"
"They wanted to kill us," Isador confirmed, "they killed my father, and now they're getting to us too."
"Are you sure?" Ned chuckled. "Maybe they wanted to kill me?"
"Who are you... forgive me," Isa corrected himself, blushing slightly. "I meant that there's been a fierce war between the aristocratic clans lately, and many people are dying. And you're new to the capital, and not even a high-born one—it's unlikely anyone would spend that kind of money to hire fighters and kill you. Sorry again, I didn't mean to offend."
"It's nothing, nothing," Ned chuckled, and, lingering his gaze on Harald, who was as pale as a sheet, suggested, "Let's get your brother to a healer quickly, or he'll soon collapse, and I don't really want to lug around a big bruiser like Harald. Look, if you're not afraid of the dead, gather up these guys' swords. We'll take them to the armorer's shop—maybe they'll give you some money. Or don't you need money? You're aristocrats, I bet, used to rolling in cash."
"Have you gotten used to it?" Isa laughed. "Our family is ancient, renowned, but... we're as poor as temple mice! Grandfather sold his last estate in the south to send Harald to school. Now all we have left is a house in the city, and even that needs repairs; bricks are falling on our heads. You think being an aristocrat means you're rich? I'd tell you..."
"Tell me later," Harald said hoarsely, swaying. "Boys, if you don't take me to the healer now, you'll be dragging me by the scruff of your neck! Enough chatter, we'll talk later. Ned, let me lean on you, and you, Isa, quickly gather your swords and catch up. Let's go to the southern entrance to the park. A couple of blocks from there, and the healer's house will be there."
The journey took about half an hour, during which Harald alternately fell into a semi-fainting state and then perked up and walked quite briskly, almost without leaning on Ned.
Finally, they found themselves in front of a small porch on a quiet side street, lined with dense, broadleaf trees whose names Ned didn't know. The sun was already quite high in the sky, but the trees provided coolness and balmy shade, pleasant after a stroll through the sun-drenched streets of the capital.
"Right here, knock," Harald ordered.
Isador began to rattle the brass hammer, shaped like the head of an unseen beast, and half a minute later a sharp, hoarse voice was heard from behind the door, which made Ned involuntarily shudder - a familiar voice that evoked a storm of memories in him...
"Yes, I hear you, I hear you! What the hell are you hammering at me like that, and at such an early hour?! Who brought you here so early in the morning? You won't let me rest, damn you!"
The door creaked open, and a sturdy old man leaning on a cane appeared on the threshold. He peered at the boys standing by the porch, and his eyes widened, as if he'd seen a sea monster.
– You?! Here?! What brings you here? Oh gods! Merciful gods, you always love a good joke!
"Mr. Senerad, we need to cure the boy," Ned said calmly, trying to calm his heart, which was beating like a bird in a cage. "Will you help?"
"Of course I'll help," the doctor said, confused. And he didn't fail to add sarcastically: "If you haven't forgotten, I am a doctor after all, and a pretty good one at that, whatever you think of me!"
"We only think well of you," Ned retorted, then suggested impatiently, "Maybe we should hurry up? The guy's barely standing!"
They entered the house, which, as always at the healer's, smelled of herbs, ointments, and salves. Harald was seated on a couch covered with a clean, washed sheet, and the healer pulled off his shirt, revealing a wound on his chest. A wide cut ran diagonally from his left shoulder to his right armpit, and Senerad grunted, wincing unpleasantly:
"Who did that to him? Any deeper, and his sternum would have been ripped open like an axe. A deep cut, nasty. I'll have to stitch it up to avoid a big scar. Of course, scars are a man's best asset, but I'm not a fan of a palm-deep ditch running through a guy's chest. You'll have to be patient, kid. Now I'm going to give you some liquid—drink it down in one gulp. It tastes awful, but at least you'll feel almost no pain."
"That's how I told him," Ned explained sullenly, sitting down in a comfortable rocking chair by the window, "we had a duel."
"You?!" the healer asked in surprise, still fussing about, preparing instruments, medicines, and the operating table. "Hmm... a lot has happened in this time, I see. Tell me, what happened to you? Where did you disappear to? How did you end up in a military uniform now? And where did your black mage's aura go... you're 'burned out,' right? What happened? I was looking for you, I was so worried..."
"I'll tell you sometime," Ned said reluctantly after a brief silence, "when you have time. Right now I'd like something to eat and drink, and the sooner you get your business done, the sooner we'll be at the tavern. By the way, we're already disgracefully late for class."
"I don't care about classes," Harald said through clenched teeth, lying down on the operating table. "Nothing will happen. A day or two won't make a difference. A duel is a matter of honor. I'll say you accompanied me to the healer, but I simply couldn't attend classes because of my injuries. By the way, Senerad, how much will the treatment cost? I don't think I even have that much money..."
"I'll take the lowest rate," the healer chuckled. "Ned's a longtime... friend of mine, so I won't ruin you. In return, he'll tell me about his adventures. I'll only charge the cost of the bandages, a painkiller, and some food for lunch after the treatment—I need to recuperate, too. By the way, where did that pile of 'firewood' that boy left at the door come from? Where did the swords come from?"
"Well, just... when we were leaving the duel, some idiots tried to attack us. We had to calm them down," Ned explained reluctantly. "Now we need to hand over these pieces of hardware somewhere; maybe they'll give us some money for them. That'll give us money for the treatment."
"There's a gun shop a block from here. I know the owner. You can take it there," said Senerad, wiping the edges of the wound with disinfectant. "He'll give you the lowest rate, of course, but he won't cheat. Especially if I ask. He comes to me for treatment sometimes. And you'll tell me everything, okay? I'm incredibly curious and love real-life stories. Strange things are happening around you, Ned. Hand over your pieces of hardware and we'll go to the tavern. The Yellow Horse is a decent establishment further down the road—the prices aren't too high. Here in the capital, there aren't many good places that serve decent food and don't try to suck all your money out of your wallet. This tavern is one of the best."
The treatment took about an hour. More accurately, most of the time was spent preparing for the actual treatment, while the healing magic took ten minutes. During those ten minutes, Harald writhed like a snake, groaning and grinding his teeth, which provoked a stream of harsh abuse from Senerad, who declared the patient a woman if he couldn't endure ten measly minutes of treatment.
In fact, the process was truly unpleasant – it felt as if ants had crawled under my skin and were running around there in a merry gang.
But everything comes to an end, and soon the whole company was walking along the pavement strewn with fallen leaves in the direction of the coveted tavern, and twenty minutes later they took a table in the corner next to the window decorated with red and blue mosaic glass.