Chapter 682: The Prelude to Counterattack
The northeastern Austrian border city, Nowy Sącz.
In the central square by the city's grand cathedral, nearly a thousand citizens had gathered, their faces filled with reverence as they gazed at "Archbishop Marloux" standing on the church steps—none other than Mr. Mesmer in disguise.
"The new crusade has begun!" Mesmer, radiating a holy aura, raised his hand and proclaimed, "All Christians must answer the call of His Holiness the Pope! Go east, to the sacred battlefield!
"There, the wicked heretics shall face judgment! And you, through this, shall atone for all your sins!"
The crowd, though not as fervent as the Polish, began crossing themselves and loudly shouting:
"Judgment for heretics!"
"Answer the call to the crusade!"
Behind "Archbishop Marloux," Nowy Sącz Diocese Bishop Borowski stood pale-faced. The supposed papal envoy had originally claimed to deliver the Pope's teachings, but Borowski had not expected such a fiery message.
He wanted to step forward and stop this but hesitated under the watchful eyes of the crowd, unsure how to manage the situation.
Mesmer pressed on:
"If the heretical Russians defeat Poland, they will surely cross the Carpathian Mountains and take this land as well!
"You will be forced to pray with the ridiculous three-fingered gesture! Your children will be baptized by being dunked in water tanks! You will never escape the torments of purgatory!"
As a professional conman, Mesmer knew the power of exaggeration.
Orthodox prayer gestures were not mandatory, baptisms didn't involve water tanks, and purgatory wasn't even part of Orthodox doctrine.
But the crowd erupted in a sea of shouts:
"No! Never!"
"We will not let the heretics come here!"
"Crusade! Crusade!"
Mesmer nodded in satisfaction. "Then show your piety by supporting the warriors fighting the heretics!"
Bishop Borowski nearly fainted. He clutched his forehead, wondering how to undo the damage after the envoy left.
Suddenly, his gaze sharpened.
Something wasn't right. A crusade of this magnitude—why had the Vatican sent no prior directive and only dispatched an envoy?
At that moment, Mesmer finished his speech and approached Borowski.
The bishop grabbed him and pulled him into the church, his face stern.
"What are you doing? This is not the Pope's decree!"
Mesmer showed no fear.
He had anticipated being exposed, and Borowski hadn't even questioned his identity—only his actions. This was much easier to handle than previous encounters.
Calmly, Mesmer replied, "It's not the decree yet, but it will be soon."
Borowski glared. "Impossible! I will report you to the Vatican!"
"That is your right." Mesmer smiled. "By the way, have you heard? Russia has issued an ultimatum to Poland, and war will break out soon."
"So?"
"Soon, all of Europe will hear about the Pope's call for a crusade. If Poland struggles, His Holiness will not deny the crusade's existence—it would make the Church appear afraid of the Orthodox.
"But if Poland defeats Russia, His Holiness will gain immense prestige for 'leading' this crusade. He might even come to Nowy Sącz himself to rally the faithful for a holy war."
Borowski hesitated. Mesmer's reasoning made sense. His actions appeared aimed at expanding the Church's influence.
Mesmer continued, "If you promote the crusade in your diocese, I will ensure that the Vatican recognizes your contributions."
His confidence stemmed from knowing that even if things went awry, the intelligence agency—and Poland's Freedom and Security Committee—would extract him.
By afternoon, Mesmer departed Nowy Sącz under Bishop Borowski's polite escort, heading to Biecz, Austria, to continue his crusade sermons.
Soon after, pamphlets about the Pope's crusade began circulating widely in Nowy Sącz. Citizens debated the matter passionately, and religious zealots began traveling to Poland to join the crusaders.
Though their numbers were modest—about a hundred—they brought their own weapons and required no pay. Mesmer's speeches in several Austrian border cities added 700–800 soldiers to Poland's forces.
More importantly, word of the "holy crusade" against Russia quickly reached Vienna.
As a Catholic nation, Austria's people naturally assumed they should support Poland.
Marecze Town
Janik wiped his musket with a cloth, mentally tallying the days as he muttered, "Seven days."
It had been a week since he arrived here.
The Russian army had been held at bay outside the town for a full seven days.
Though reports of near-breakthroughs and heavy casualties arrived daily—his own company had lost nearly a third of its men—the defensive line had yet to fall.
A boy carrying a bucket approached, washing rags on the ground.
Janik turned to him.
"Kach, a cart for the wounded heads to Warsaw tomorrow. You can go with it."
The boy froze, then shook his head.
"Listen to me. It's dangerous here," Janik insisted.
Kach shook his head again.
"You want revenge for your sister?"
Kach nodded.
Janik sighed, ruffling the boy's hair, though the motion sent pain searing through his wounds.
"Ugh—yeah, I get it. But you're not even taller than a musket."
"I can fire a cannon!" Kach said, his rare words firm and loud.
Janik chuckled. "Then you'll need to go to Warsaw and learn math first. Cannoneers don't rely on luck for their aim."
He had already decided to adopt the boy, though he himself was only 19.
But three days ago, he had been promoted to sergeant. His pay would suffice for Kach's schooling, and military academy, he'd heard, was free.
Kach looked at him seriously, then nodded.
"Alright. But I'll be back soon!"
Janik wanted to ruffle his hair again but stopped, remembering his injuries. Instead, he pointed to the ground.
"Until then, I'll guard this place.
"Just like Mr. Drasowicz and the others."
A distant drumbeat interrupted him.
Janik turned to see a Polish army column marching along the road.
The soldiers moved in impeccably neat formations, their numbers stretching beyond the horizon.
Kach looked to him questioningly.
"Maybe reinforcements for the town," Janik replied uncertainly.
A second lieutenant inspecting their muskets overheard and glanced up. He pointed to the banners at the column's front.
"That's the Royal Third Infantry Division. The unit behind them looks like the Royal Second Cavalry Regiment."
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