When the shadows of night dissolved and the world-illuminating sun crested the heavens, the hosts of both Iran and Turan mounted their warhorses. King Goshtasp ascended the mountain crest to behold the impending clash. He called for his formidable black steed, Behzad—a horse imposing as Mount Bisotun itself. War-armor was fastened upon the beast, and the monarch of monarchs swung into the saddle. Both armies descended into the valley, and brass trumpets blared from atop war elephants. The field of combat was drawn in strict array, and champions roared out demanding worthy foes.
First came a cloud-burst of arrows, falling like spring hail. The sun's radiant eye was eclipsed by glittering iron arrowheads, as though the sky held a dark cloud that rained cut diamonds. Mace-bearers and lancers charged across the divide; the atmosphere turned pitch-black while the earth beneath became crimson with blood.
The first to ride into the fray was Prince Ardashir, a noble and fierce warrior carrying a heavy spear, recalling the mighty general Tus. He paraded before the Iranian ranks, unaware of the decree of fate. Suddenly, a penetrating shaft pierced his waist, driving through his royal armor. The moon-faced prince pitched headlong from his chestnut steed, his pristine flesh steeped in blood; alas for that handsome royal youth, whom wise King Goshtasp would never look upon again.
Seeing his fall, Prince Hormozd, lion-hearted and dearly beloved by the Shahanshah, surged forward to avenge him. Brandishing a dagger tempered in poison, he roared like a ravenous beast bringing down a wild ass. Driven by vengeance, he cut down a thousand enemy horsemen. Yet as he turned back from the field, a fateful shaft struck him from behind, and that royal prince perished.
Then entered Prince Shidasp, radiant as the moon, riding a dark steed as black as the Nile—a mount swift as a gazelle and massive as an elephant. Shidasp brandished his lance and challenged: "Where is Kahram the mighty, whose frame resembles an ancient wolf?" A wolfish Turanian warrior stepped forth, boasting: "I am he who battles even hungry lions!" They clashed like twin tempests; Shidasp struck the Turkic warrior with his spear, hurled him from his mount, severed his head, and cast his golden girdle into the dust. Shidasp rode before the Chinese ranks like a towering mountain on horseback, unparalleled in beauty and valor. But an evil fate awaited him: a Turanian archer loosed a shaft that pierced Shidasp through the chest, its iron point emerging from his back. Thus fell the tenderly nurtured prince, his royal father never to behold his countenance again.