Rostam and Sohrab entered the narrow arena of doom. At first, they charged with long lances until the shafts shattered and spearheads broke away. Turning their steeds, they drew sharp Indian blades, raining blows so fiercely that sparks of fire erupted from colliding iron until the swords dissolved into splinters. Next, they gripped heavy maces; under their tremendous force, the iron clubs bent, the warhorses grew winded, and the champions' hearts turned grim. The armor slipped from the steeds and mail shredded across their torsos.
At last, both horses and warriors were completely exhausted; their bodies bathed in sweat, their mouths choked with dust, and their tongues cracked with unbearable thirst. They stepped back, staring at each other across the red dust—a father filled with unspoken agony and a son weighed down by weary strife, yet neither recognized the sacred bond, for wisdom had fled and fate veiled their eyes. Rostam marveled in secret, acknowledging that even his triumph over the White Demon paled before the raw prowess of this untamable youth.
After resting their warhorses, both bent their bows, but the sharp arrows could not pierce Rostam’s imperious tiger-skin armor (Babr-e Bayan). Rostam then sought to grip Sohrab’s girdle and wrench him from the saddle, yet the youth’s core remained rooted like a mountain. Sohrab struck back with a heavy mace blow against Rostam's shoulder, mocking the legend with bitter laughter.
Tired and sore, they broke apart. Rostam, fearing for the Iranian host, swept into the Turanian lines like a hungry panther among sheep, scattering their ranks. In vengeance, Sohrab descended upon the Iranian army, bathing the field in blood. Hearing the slaughter, Rostam rushed back and confronted Sohrab for striking unoffending soldiers. Sohrab answered that Rostam had drawn first blood upon his innocent Turanians. With dusk settling over the blood-stained soil, the two mighty champions pledged a truce, agreeing to settle their mortal contest at the break of dawn.