A/N: Time to check up on Anders and Thorongil!

Mirumor rode up to the ruins of the main gate of Barad-dûr.  Even in ruins it towered above her - a mountain of stone and steel.  She dismounted her horse and straightened out her elegant, if somewhat revealing, scarlet dress.  With an armored troll to either side she stepped across the threshold.

After a few minutes of ducking under twisted iron and clamoring over fallen stone she made her way to what had once been the first courtyard within The Dark Tower.  A five-hundred foot tower that had once stood beside the main gate had fallen across the courtyard, rendering the once clean marble floor a mess of stone and metal. It had taken her orcs two months just to dig a path through the rubble to reach the gateway on the far side or the courtyard.

“Mistress!” shouted a particularly tall orc.  “We did not know you were coming!”

“I thought I would make a surprise visit, to check on your progress,” she replied.  Her voice sounded fair and her pronunciation cultured. “What have you found?”

“We’re working as fast as we can,” stammered the orc, shaking with fear.

“That doesn't answer my question...” said the sorceress calmly as her troll guard strode threatenly up.

“You have to understand!” cried the orc.  “Every tunnel, every passage, it's all broken!”

“What have you found?” repeated Mirumor.

“Plenty of weapons and armor,” squeaked the orc.

“Did I ask for simple weapons and armor?” asked Mirumor.

“No ma’am.”

“Furthermore, what are you doing out here?  Surely you should be digging, if that is what keeps us from our prize?”

At this one of the trolls picked the orc up by the neck.

“I’m on guard duty!” begged the orc, barely able to breath.

“Guard duty, in the middle of Barad-dûr?” laughed the sorceress.

“I swear it!  Ask the captain!”

“Bring him,” Mirumor commanded.  The troll dragged the orc along as they made their way through the exit out of the courtyard and into what had once been a great crossroads of many intersecting byways within the Barad-dûr.  Little of the roads were visible beneath the rubble of no less than six guard towers which had collapsed. Two towers remained relatively upright, and it was in these that the orcs made camp.

An uruk-hai saluted Mirumor as she approached.

“Did you leave this orc on guard?” asked the sorceress.

“Yes Mirumor,” he replied.

“Release him!” she barked.  The troll dropped the orc who fell flat on his face, wheezing and coughing.

The sorceress turned her attention back to the uruk commander.  “I thought I told you not to use my name?”

“There is no one else here who might find the information valuable,” said the orc.

Mirumor held out her hand.  “Do not presume to interpret my orders!”

The orc tried to apologize but found he could not breath.  He fell to his knees in pain, coughing up black blood.

“Next time I won't be so merciful,” she said, lowering her hand.  It took the orc a minute to recover and spit out all the blood. It would be weeks before his lungs didn't hurt.

Mirumor caught sight of her only trusted servant among these treasure-hunters, a troll named Burt.  He was remarkably clever, a thing unheard of among his kind, and he understood how to motivate orcs even better than she did.  More importantly, he didn't despise living among them.

“We should talk in private,” said the troll running up to her.  Mirumor and Burt found a quiet place to talk.

“Are you not concerned that the orcs will realize you only know one spell, and it doesn't kill particularly quickly?” asked the Troll.

“I’m working on others!” hissed Mirumor.  “What news of the dig?”

“I think we are close to the Palantír,” Burt began.  “I got to thinking, surely the King kept his most prized possessions near him, and legend has it he lived high in the top tower.  Therefore, I have had my best troops building a path up through the ruins of the central spire.”

Burt pointed up the mountain to the north where the remains of the central tower now lay, snaking their way among rocky spurs.  At the top of the ruined mess of black stone was a remarkably intact structure which had once been the crown of the mighty tower.

“And their progress?” asked the witch.

“Yesterday they returned with this,” he replied, handing her a piece of broken steel with an engraving in mithril and gold.  Mirumor could read the Black Speech.

His Majesty Mairon Lord of the Earth

Mirumor’s hand trembled.  “If only I had been born in time to enter this great tower in its majesty, what a student I would have made.”

Burt nodded.  “Perhaps, though legend says he was a cruel master.  Maybe it is better to pick up the remnants of his power.”

The sorceress shook her head.  “Perhaps for you. Even if we find the Palantír I will be only a child playing with forces she barely comprehends.  I would gladly trade any treasure we find for a chance to meet their master.”

Burt pondered her words.  He wondered if Sauron would have had any time for her, unless it was to torture her for her insolence.  Every orcish legend about the Lord of Lugbúrz said he was cruel beyond measure and exacted a terrible price for any service rendered.  Perhaps he might have appreciated her unwavering devotion. Perhaps.

A few hours later Thorongil and Captain Anders were within a mile of the ruined gate.

“It's looks like a massive jaw,” muttered Anders, “with ruined towers for fangs.”

“Hold it together, captain,” laughed Thorongil.

As they approached the gate they heard marching feet.  They leapt behind a fallen bit of battlement from the wall and waited for the host to pass.  After the sounds died away they peered back down the road they had come by and saw at least two hundred orcs carrying bundles of weapons and armor.  A troll led their march.

Thorongil and Anders slipped into Barad-dûr and reached the first courtyard.  They overheard some chatter within.

“I can't believe the witch is in charge now!”

“I miss Burt already.”

“You miss Burt?  Just yesterday he tore my best mate's arms off!”

“Aye Burt will do that, but when Burt pulls a guy's arms off you know he deserved it!”

Thorongil and Anders drew their swords and charged into the courtyard.  They quickly slew ten orcs on guard. Thorongil got seven to Anders’ three, but Anders complained that Thorongil killed one he would have had with an unnecessary thrown dagger.

Captain Anders and Thorongil set off along the hewn path through the courtyard.  They were hours behind Mirumor but the set a torrid pace. They followed the path the orcs had constructed up through the ruins of the great tower and towards what had once been Sauron's inner sanctum.  They crawled through tunnels that looked ready to collapse at any moment. They climbed up rope ladders and walked along the walls of what must have been impressive halls in the Dark Tower. It took nearly twenty hours for them to make the ascent, but they eventually reached the top.  Before them stood what had been the final few floors of Sauron’s tower.

The black metal structure was leaning against a rock wall, a cylinder with many windows crowned with crenellations of red crystal.  From a low balcony hung a rope ladder, swaying in the mountain breeze. Below it stood two armored trolls.

“You can still feel the evil,” muttered Anders shivering.  Thorongil noted fear in his voice for the first time since they had met.  Even half a century after his downfall Sauron’s aura of terror still lay upon this place - like a chill air which fought to smother any living thing which dare move within in.

Thorongil put his hand on the ranger’s shoulder.  “Stay here.”

Anders only nodded.  He took a seat upon a broken stone, exhausted.  They had not slept in more than a day.

Thorongil drew his sword and it burst into flames as he approached the trolls.  “Good evening gentlemen!” he yelled as they fumbled for their weapons.

Thorongil easily dispatched the witch’s troll guard and began to climb her ladder.  He was about halfway up when she appeared at the window.

“Good evening to you,” she shouted, a knife in her hand.  “Pity I don't have time to deal with you properly.”

Mirumor had seen what Thorongil did to her trolls and did not want to give him any more time than was necessary.  Even as she spoke she cut the ladder and Thorongil fell twenty feet to the rocks below. As he fell he considered throwing a dagger but decided to concentrate on surviving the landing.

Anders rushed to Thorongil’s side.  He was in great pain but he slowly got up, cursing in his strange tongue which Anders wrongly assumed to be elvish.  As he struggled to his feet he heard the cry of a mighty beast. Looking up they saw what men called a Fell Beast, the twisted flying lizards which Sauron had used to carry his Nazgúl.  It landed on top of the tower briefly and then leapt off the far side from where Thorongil stood.

Thorongil stumbled around the base of the fallen citadel and prepared a shot with his black bow.  As reached the far side he looked down from their high rocky perch and saw the witch upon her foul winged steed swooping towards the ruins far below.  It was at least a thousand feet away, so Thorongil slowly lowered his bow. She had won this round.

It was seven days later when Thorongil and Captain Anders meandered up to the Gondorian garrison at the Black Gate.  They had spent a day in the mountains after their failure to capture the witch, seeking a mountain stream to fill their waterskins.  They were in no hurry to return in defeat.

Captain Anders was warmly welcomed by the soldiers of the garrison.  They thought nothing of his self-described failure and praised his courage mightily.  The name of Captain Anders was well known to most in Gondor’s armies and they were glad to have their young hero return safely.

The garrison at the Black Gate had no horses to spare forcing Thorongil and Anders to travel by foot to Minas Tirith.  They went via Cair Andros, a nine day journey walking without strong purpose and counting an entire day at the historic ford over the Anduin.  Elerína was standing at the main gate of the Tower of Guard when they arrived.

“Where have you been!” she laughed.

Thorongil dismounted his horse.  “We took a little trip to Barad-dûr.”

“Don't be too proud of yourself,” Elerína whispered as the maiar embraced, “I’ve been to the Paths of the Dead!”