The Lion Guard : The fiery Burnous -Book I-

Chapter 4: Departures

On a horse galloping at triple speed through the countryside overlooked by the Bibans, sat a furious Abu Abbas Kion. Escape! What infamy! Fleeing with four hundred Kabyle after the death of his brother under the walls of Constantine to defend Medjana wasn't humiliating enough, but now here he was, a fugitive on the run from the envoyed from the wretched brotherhood of bandits whose name was that of the patron saint Sidi Yousef.

But he had to get away from his tribe, at the risk of incurring Ushari's wrath. Who knows what this miserable dog would have done to the most important Kabyle tribe in the hinterland. Deportation north of Morocco, like the Hilaliens, destruction, like the last Kutama of Mila, or disgrace, which would bring it dishonor for centuries.

Kion glanced quickly at Bunga, who was riding beside him on the steed of the Masmouda killed last night. Behind him was Ono, still groaning slightly in pain, no telling what would become of him as, after trying to open an eye, he found himself unable to make out the things falling into his field of vision. "A good start!" thought Kion to himself, after having to travel to regain his "honor" with a student on his back and the Almohads on his ass, now he had to be in charge of a blind man.

–"And to think I thought I'd have this case wrapped up by Eid!" he said breathlessly.

–"Stop whining please! It's not the end of the world either!" replied Bunga, trying to avoid as many obstacles as possible.

Now they were alone, they had to get away, and fast!

Kion had managed, thanks to his network of acquaintances (or rather spies), to more or less know in advance Ushari's wishes concerning the Wanugha. Thus, he knew that he wanted to impose the Kharâj (tax) on them, in addition to a tribute, the freedom of the Mamluk Turks... But he had no idea that he would send Makucha to represent him.

–"Surely because the Earl's army was too weakened to be sent to Andalusia or Wargla?" Ono reassured him.

–"No." Kion replied, "Ushari has servants, sheriffs and policemen by the hundreds, he could well send one of them instead of a terrorist bandit. No, I'm telling thee, he has a role in this play."

A doubt confirmed that very evening by Wallpass. Wallpass had informed Kion that an attempt would be made on his life. By whom? The Assassins? Ushari? The Caliph? Qarakuch? No one knew. But he was sure that the sponsor would take advantage of the presence of the notables of Ath Abbas & surroundings to provoke a psychological shock among the population, and from there, to reduce the "Abu Abbas Kion" legend to nothing for the Maghreb nations. Kion didn't believe it; it was insane! he replied to the messenger.

Yet he remained on his guard: you never know, you can never be sure of anything, especially in a country that would much later be called "Algeria". He wanted to respond to psychological shock with psychic shock. How? Well... even he doesn't know. But hey, let's let "Mektoub" do its thing.

Nevertheless, "Mektoub" ("all is written") isn't Kion's favorite phrase. And that's why he asked Jasiri & Anga to bury the rebellion's documents (finances, armies, intelligence, spies...) as well as part of his library in the Sidi Kaci cave, and why he asked Beshte & Wallpass to accompany Makini to Colla (on their way), so that nobody would suspect anything, and to organize their supplies in hostile terrain.

But images of his burning farm still haunted his mind. He was afraid. He was afraid that all Takorabt and the tribes willing to protect him would suffer the same fate, or worse, be deported. Images of children crying loudly to their mothers, who were also crying over the bodies of their husbands. The images of old people watching everything they had built, their life's work, go up in smoke. The funeral songs of the old women. The cries of distress of the people on their way to be deported to an unknown land, which was so much like theirs without being theirs. The remorse of the men who implore God to shorten the suffering of exile, in a world that was supposed to be perfect, made of light and without violence...