As the radiant sun crested the mountain peaks, the horsemen of Turan readied their gear, and a deafening clamor echoed through the city as warhorns blared. The nobles and chieftains gathered before the gate of King Afrasiab, prostrating themselves in shame and fury. They declared that the disgrace of Bizhan’s rescue and Rostam’s daring raid would forever stain the royal throne unless revenged, warning that if they remained passive, the Iranians would no longer deem them men, but armor-clad women.
Afrasiab erupted in leopard-like rage and commanded immediate mobilization. He ordered Piran to beat the great war drums and sound the brass trumpets. A Turanian host of unimaginable magnitude poured forth, covering the earth until it resembled a boiling ocean. From his lookout post, Rostam's scout caught sight of the churning dark cloud of dust and hastened to inform the champion that the sky had turned black with Turanian cavalry. Rostam replied with sublime indifference, asserting that they feared no such horde. He promptly dispatched Manizheh and his heavy baggage to safety, donned his battle harness, and rode up to a high vantage point. Gazing upon the endless host, he roared like a furious lion: "What does a fox weigh in the clutches of a lion?"
Calling his brave warriors around him, Rostam bade them unsheathe their venom-steeped blades, raise their spears, and wield their ox-headed maces. Mounting Rakhsh, he descended into the plain and arranged the Iranian battle line: Ashkash and Gustaham commanded the right wing; Rohham and Zangeh led the left wing; while Rostam himself and Bizhan son of Giv stood at the heart of the center, securing the army's rear against the slopes.
When Afrasiab perceived Rostam looming like a mountain of iron at the head of the Iranian army, sorrow and foreboding gripped his heart. He donned his battle mail, halted his advance, and drew up his own ranks—placing Piran on the left, Houman on the right, and entrusting the center to Garsivaz and Shideh. Rostam circled the field, shouting taunts at the Turanian king, mocking his habit of turning tail whenever the fray grew fierce, reminding him of ancient lore: a lion never falters before a herd of wild asses, and a falcon spares no partridge.
Stung by these words, Afrasiab exhorted his leaders with promises of crowns and treasure, igniting a ferocious clash. Dust blotted out the sun, heavy maces fell like hail, and Rostam's dragon-crested banner flashed through the gloom. Rostam charged into the Turanian center like a ravenous wolf, his ox-headed mace crushing chieftains, while Gurgin, Rohham, Farhad, Ashkash, and Bizhan shattered the Turanian wings.
Seeing his champions fallen and his fortune reversed, Afrasiab dropped his Indian blade, mounted a fresh steed, and fled headlong toward Turan with his inner guard. Rostam pursued the broken army for two leagues like a furious dragon, slaughtering numbers and taking one thousand war-hardened Turanians captive. Returning victoriously to camp, the mighty champion distributed the vast spoils, loaded them onto war-elephants, and set out in triumph toward King Kay Khosrow.