When half the night had passed and darkness enveloped the plains, Piran Viseh, the shrewd commander of Turan, handpicked thirty thousand elite sword-wielding cavalrymen. Striking forward in absolute silence without the sound of drums, trumpets, or clarions, they traversed seven leagues under cover of the moonless night.
In the Iranian camp, reckless revelry had lulled the host into fatal vulnerability. Expecting no attack, the warriors lay scattered inside their tents, overcome by heavy wine and sleep, having unbuckled their waistbands. Only the vigilant Goudarz and his valiant son Giv remained alert. Suddenly, the roaring war-cries of Turan and the shattering blows of battle-axes pierced the dark. Giv sprang forth like a furious leopard, mounted his armored warhorse, and rushed to the main pavilion to warn the commander Tus, while rallying young Bizhan and the sleeping troops, crying out that the field of war had been turned into a banqueting hall at their mortal peril.
It was too late to form ranks. The Turanian horsemen swarmed the camp like ants and locusts. A deluge of arrows rained upon sleeping champions whose soft pillows became their deathbeds, crushed beneath iron maces before they could draw their blades. As dawn broke and the sun rose into the constellation of Leo, Giv looked out upon a scene of utter horror: the vast plain was blanketed with slain Iranian warriors, broken banners, overturned drums, and faces darkened like ebony with despair. Fathers had lost sons, sons had lost fathers, and two-thirds of the royal army lay butchered in their blood.
Leaving behind their pavilions, baggage, royal thrones, and supplies, the shattered remnants fled helpless toward Mount Kasa-rud. The relentless Turanian cavalry pursued them, raining mace blows upon their helmets until the survivors took refuge among the rugged cliffs.
Tus, stripped of his arrogance, wandered near-mad with shame and grief. Old Goudarz wept tears of blood over his fallen sons and grandsons, with no physicians or food to comfort the wounded. Sentinels were stationed atop the peaks, and a swift messenger was dispatched to the imperial court of Kay Khosrow to convey the horrific calamity wrought by Tus's hubris. When the news reached King Kay Khosrow, his grief over the murder of his innocent half-brother Farud burned even fiercer. Deeply wounded by the slaughter of his host, the King spent the entire night until the cock's crow bitterly invoking curses upon Tus.