That it had been an act of the crowd's mind that led the party out onto the third-floor balcony, Godric could only assume. He wouldn't have chosen it. That much was certain.

There had been a mass movement for the opposite stairs to pile down, but someone ahead began to scream about mountains being toppled by the songs of evil men and had moments later turned and sped through the first door past the stairs. A death scream came then.

The crowd flooded onto the third-floor balcony as though it were unconsciously elected as the best choice.

"No!" Durst shouted but only Ada listened. Wexler and a man Durst was fairly certain wore the name of Terry turned to glance at him, but then slipped through the French doors that over-looked the grand hall below.

More screams and murmurs came—the cause could be seen from the hall—two bodies in the Grand Hall. The nearest windows broken. It was those that cleaned the artifacts with toothbrushes. They'd been shot.

Another statue blocked the front door.

In a fit of inspiration Durst ran for the room with the passage beyond a shattered window, but once stopped at a gasp for what awaited him.

Two statutes—Greek hoplites with spear and shield—sitting off their pedestals and facing the door. Glazed stone eyes pointed directly at him. The paintings around them had all either fallen to the floor or been turned around.

Ada gasped when she peeked over his shoulder, and shouted, "Those used to be on the balcony!"

"Back! Back! Back!" said Durst.

The crowd flooded away from them when they stepped on the balcony—already running back into the third floor hall to seek another escape. An animal trapped runs for freedom.

"Fuck!" Durst roared when a frantic elbow cut across his wound.

His body lurched back, sliding on the rail, the shadow spangled cases of gold and stone below looming in his periphery. Things righted themselves when Ada grabbed him and he pressed his hand into hers when equilibrium was regained.

Wexler and Terry still straggled behind the rest—and this was their doom. There came the crash of a pistol and Terry fell to the floor with hole in his head, thoughts forever lost in rushing red.

Wexler stepped back to the baclony in a single dash—his eyes wide and locked on the French doors; mouth agape and murmuring something. The Ski Masked Man raced through—a short dagger in hand. It hit Wexler the center of his chest.

The beard on his thin face shifted—his expression unperturbed—he merely accepted the blow and let his hands fall to the railing he now leaned against.

The man pulled it out in a smooth rip, and Wexler seemed hardly to notice. No gush of blood, only a moist hole in his suit. He slumped down against the rail.

The man turned on Durst and Ada, grinned, and raised the pistol.

"You!"

Something roared this from beyond the French doors and a light in the Grand hall went out. The floor vibrated for but a moment.

The grin on the Ski Masked Man's face faltered, and quick side glanced eyes fell to the door. The grin died completely. A white and colossal figure lunged at him, shield first.

The spear it held shattered against the doorframe as the thing toppled over, and the masked man dove back—fired a shot even—but found himself pressed against the railing. In one crushing instant the statue met the ground and did not let him stay in the way.

Both of his legs smashed by that round shield—the helmeted head colliding into his groin with the tip of it punching into his gut. Pulled him down so hard the railing cracked and bent at his tumbling weight and his back wedged between two rails, his head cracked against the handrail. Splintered it.

A long groan escaped his lips then—and he raised the gun—fired two final shots into the French door and then dropped the pistol. The knife too. Began to pull at his ski mask.

"He... He pushed it..." the lips said when the mask was only half off and had freed his mouth and chin only. His hands fell to the hoplite's shoulders and began to press against it, but the thing was locked in place. "The headless man... How the fuck did he do that? Christ... My medallion... Said I'd delivered him into his enemy's hands... Passed him off like a traitor... That he wouldn't be replaced. What the fuck was he talking about?"

Durst stared at him as he spoke with an almost child-like earnestness and with a jagged grasp and lurch forward snatched the gun. The crushed man didn't even notice, just breathed in harsh groans and stared through the door ahead of him. Durst couldn't see anything.

Another light went out below them—one in the hall beyond too—and again the floor shook.

"Stay there!" hissed Durst to Ada.

Something moved to his left. Durst whipped to it and pointed the gun, but it was only the Ski Masked Man—he'd gotten the ski mask all the way off. Had a bruise and a couple thin cuts around the forehead; hair pulled up in a sweaty cowlick. With a frightened eye that fixed on Durst a shaking hand matted the hair down to the side. A few strands remained pointing in a weak curve, shining in the light.

"He's gone man..." the voice rasped. "The headless man... Said he wouldn't be replaced and wouldn't let a pale imitation... But... But..."

Durst leaned to peek through the door—nothing. Fully stepped over the toppled statue—ready to shoot—but found an empty hall. Everyone else had sprinted back to the stairs.

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1000 words.

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