Upon the high ramparts of the impregnable fortress, young Farud stood alongside seventy moon-faced maidens clad in fine Chinese silk, his spirit heavy with sorrow as he surveyed the gathering storm below. Tokhar, his wise advisor, stepped forward and counselled him softly: 'O noble prince, if battle you must seek, beware not to strike down the renowned commander Tus himself. It is far better that you shoot his charger beneath him. For his fated time may not yet have arrived to perish by a single shaft, and once the commander ascends this peak, his entire host will swarm the heights. You possess not the strength to endure the boundless rage beneath his darkened brows.'
Farud heeded Tokhar's counsel, strung his royal bow, and drew the notch to his ear. A swift poplar arrow cleaved the air, striking the commander's noble Arabian steed. The horse pitched headlong and died upon the rocky crags. Tus, his heart consumed with vengeful fury and his pride crushed, slung his shield over his neck and retreated down the mountain on foot—covered in dust, bewildered, and stripped of his glory.
From the high battlements, Farud taunted the fleeing general, shouting: 'What has befallen this famed champion, that he succumbs to a single rider? How shall he ever swagger in the heart of battle?' The maiden attendants broke into derisive laughter, their voices echoing off the stone walls: 'An old man rolls down the heights in fear of a youth's arrow!'
When Tus reached the camp on foot, the chieftains gathered around him in shock and sorrow. Noble Giv, beholding their commander's humiliation, burned with indignation. 'This passes all measure!' Giv declared. 'The faces of our paladins are disgraced today. Though Tus acted rashly, Farud has cast a dark cloud over us all. We would willingly lay down our lives for the sake of Siyavash, yet can we forget the blood of noble Zarasam and Rivniz, whose bodies lie drenched in red? We must not endure such shame!'