For two full weeks the desperate carnage raged between the hosts of Iran and Turan, as the sky over the battlefield grew darker with every passing hour. Out from the Iranian ranks bounded Prince Zarir the invincible, mounted upon a majestic golden steed. He plunged into the heart of the enemy lines like a roaring fire and a howling tempest tearing through dry grass. None among the Turanian ranks possessed the strength or spirit to withstand his wrath; wherever he swept his mace, corpses piled up like desolate hills.
Seeing his mighty host cut to pieces by a single man, King Arjasp of China and Turan fell into despair. He cried out to his commanders: 'Two weeks have slipped away in blood, and I see no end to this doom! If this lion-hearted prince is allowed another hour, neither China nor Khallukh nor Eytash shall survive his blades. Which among you valiant warriors will step into the arena to face him? Whosoever brings down this mad elephant shall receive my own daughter in marriage and command over all my armies!' Yet profound terror gripped the Turanian ranks, and no warrior dared utter a word in response.
At last, Bidarafsh—a vile and monstrous sorcerer, an ancient wolf of war—stepped forward to offer his service. Rejoycing, Arjasp bestowed upon him his own warhorse, his royal saddle, and a legendary javelin tempered in deadliest poison. Bidarafsh slunk onto the bloody plain toward Prince Zarir. Yet when he beheld Zarir from afar—covered in crimson and dust, swinging his heavy mace like the heroic Sam amidst mountains of slain Turanians—the coward's heart failed him. Lacking the courage to face Zarir eye-to-eye, Bidarafsh crept stealthily behind the champion and hurled the poisoned javelin into his back.
The wicked shaft pierced Zarir's royal mail, drowning his glorious form in venomous blood. The great prince fell from his charger to the red earth. Dismounting, the foul Bidarafsh stripped away Zarir's armor, his belt, his golden helmet, and his legendary Black Banner, taking them straight to Arjasp as triumphant trophies.
When victorious roars erupted from the enemy camp, King Goshtasp looked down from the heights and realized the shining star of his army—his beloved brother Zarir—was nowhere to be seen. A swift messenger returned with devastating tidings: Zarir was dead, slain by treachery from behind. Goshtasp tore his royal garments down to his feet, scattered ash upon his crown, and wept bitter tears of agonizing bereavement, crying out in terror at how he could ever face his aging father King Lohrasp. Though Goshtasp prepared to ride forth himself to avenge his brother, his wise vizier Jamasp restrained him. Goshtasp then called upon his mighty host, promising the hand of his royal daughter Homai to whichever brave champion would step forth, slay Bidarafsh, and reclaim the steed and Black Banner of Zarir.