Commander Tus arrayed the Iranian host with war-elephants, battle-hardened champions, and thunderous drums. He directed the baggage train and infantry toward the mountain slope for high ground, placing the venerable Goudarz upon the right wing and Goudarz's valiant son Rohham upon the left, stringing the lines tight across the field.
As the war-horns blared and the great kettledrums roared, the very heavens seemed to tremble and crack. Dust erupted from beneath thousands of hooves, blotting out the face of the sun until the noon sky turned to pitch. Rain of diamond-hard steel poured from the darkened clouds, and the clash of maces and broadswords struck blinding sparks. The battlefield became a churning sea of blood, where radiant spearheads and flashing blades shone like torches in the gloom, and the noise grew so deafening that fighters could scarce tell head from foot.
Seeing the obscure darkness engulfing the realm, Tus turned to Goudarz with a troubled heart, recalling the warning of a royal astrologer who prophesied that three watches of night must pass through a bloody gloom before victory is decided—and Tus feared the day might end in favor of their vengeful foes. Yet Iran’s finest champions—Sheydoush, Rohham, Gostaham, Giv, armored Khorrad, and brave Barzin—stepped forth into the center of the fray with wounded hearts and unyielding resolve.
On the opposing side, Houman marshaled the Turanian host like a solid mountain. Champions gathered on the plain to engage in dire single combats: Rohham faced Ferashidvard, Sheydoush engaged Lahhak, and the young Bizhan closed in on Kolbad. Houman rallied his warriors with a roaring war cry, urging them to put their sweet lives in their hands and clear the earth of their Iranian rivals once and for all. Seeing the enemy brace for impact, Tus moved the foot soldiers—shield-bearers, javelin throwers, and pikemen—to the front rank before the cavalry, ordering them to lock shields, brace their spears, and await the decisive strike of the heavy maces.