Banan's boots squished as he headed down the dank passageway, using the slime-covered wall to guide him through the darkness. He had entered the barrow only a few moments before, but already the inhabitants of the sepulchres around him had done their best to slow his advance. At the next juncture a dull green light pulled at his gaze, so he followed it down a twisting corridor of hollowed earth. The air grew colder and damper as he descended. The light brightened, but instead of growing and filling the tunnels it somehow made the shadows seem darker. As he rounded a corner a chamber opened suddenly before him; Banan ducked back out again.

"Enter, Brother, and be welcome." Banan almost turned and fled--he had hoped to take the necromancer unawares--but instead crept into the opening. The passageway opened into a cramped chamber, with smooth walls of brownish-gray earth. No doubt he has some influence over the barrow-dirt, Banan thought to himself as he inched forward. Mounds of refuse sat about the room, which after a closer look Banan saw contained parts of bodies. Revolting. Banan gagged.

From a throne of earth and bone the necromancer waited for Banan with a sneer. Above his head the ribs of a dozen corpses rose like a gruesome, ivory sunburst, while his fingers drummed on armrests of breastbones. Banan felt a familiar acrid taste rise in the back of his throat, but forced it back down--he would not let his quarry see him retch.

"I've been expecting you," the necromancer said, his lazy voice belying the malice in his eyes. "Well, not you in particular, but one of your brethren."

"You are charged. . ." Banan started.

The necromancer cut him off with an upheld hand. "Yes, enslaving spirits, sorcery, affront to the natural order, et cetera. . . You and your Brotherhood are well-known to me. Take him."

At his word, the mounds began to shudder and rise. A dozen of the walking dead shook the offal from their bodies before converging on Banan. He brandished a slender rod, topped with a knot of metal and adorned with faintly-glowing runes.

"An invested weapon, Brother?" the necromancer taunted. "What are your holy rules against such magicks?" Banan swung this mace frantically at the first body, the bright blue-white flash exploding its head. But then the runes faded from the haft; the next blow dented a head but caused no damage. Drawing the smallsword from his belt, he hacked at the taloned hands that attempted to latch onto him, but when he succeeded they only curled their stump-ended limbs around him.

"Farewell, Brother," the necromancer said with a dismissive gesture.

For the honor of the Fathers, I have no other choice, he thought as he wrenched an arm free and reached into the neckline of his black tunic. He shuddered as he withdrew the leather thong tied around his neck, and the token it held. "Eh?" the necromancer puzzled, then commanded his minions, "Fetch that trinket for me."

The finger bone, small and delicate, gleamed bright white as Banan held it aloft. He closed his eyes as the dirty nails raked his wrists; unable to wait any longer, he whispered the words, "Mausistanis Kalia."

I come, my love, Kalia answered, stirring the very core of his being as she awoke. He felt her emerge from within his soul more keenly than the whirlwind she summoned, blasting the pile of zombies away to land broken and unmoving. This time he did retch, free of their grip, as the sensation of her enveloped him. He had tried to avoid calling this dead thing at all costs.

"Bonebearer!" the necromancer hissed. He gestured frantically as a pale white phantasm coalesced beside him. But Kalia struck first, arcs of amber lightning tearing through the ghost as well as the remainder of the deadlings.

The necromancer slumped back onto the seat. "How? She is so strong. So strong. . ."

Banan looked at the man for a moment before answering. "Our sages tell me that by bending the spirits to your will, you weaken them. And those that you do not break fight your commands."

"For all your righteousness, your Brotherhood of Bones is just like me."

"We are not like you. The spirits we ally ourselves with believe in our cause. They respect us, and we them. Sometimes there is friendship, or dislike, and so help me sometimes there is love."

There is love, Kalia agreed, whispering.

"But there is always respect. Never compulsion."

A sad smile stole across the necromancer's face. "Take me, then. Will your sages cage me? Cut me off from all the souls I've enslaved?"

"You misunderstand," Banan answered. "You are charged. . ." he paused, omitting his prepared speech, "and sentenced."

The necromancer's shrill scream echoed mutely off the walls of the barrow.

*

"Sinatsisaum Kalia," Banan incanted. As the spirit rounded on him, he felt her resistance.

"Am I so repulsive to you?"

He paused just briefly. "Yes."

"Though I love you?"

"All the more because you do," Banan replied, turning.

"Though I saved your life?"

This time he paused longer, and turned back. "I should thank you for that." Kalia only raised an ethereal eyebrow in response. Banan corrected himself. "I thank you for that."

"Kind words? I expect civility at least. Else destroy the anchor and be done with me." Then a stale breeze, and Kalia vanished.

Banan stood for a moment, the bone still in his hand. Kalia was a willing ally, but at least the necromancer didn't hide behind righteous rhetoric. He could drop the bone, crush it with his boot, and be free of the spirit forever. Sighing his resolve, he retied the string around his neck and left the sepulchre.