When the Turanian host beheld Arjasp fleeing in panic and saw the swift, scorching blades of the Iranians raining upon them from every quarter, their courage dissolved. The proudest chieftains dismounted from their warhorses, cast their Chachi bows upon the blood-stained earth, and stripped off their mail. In utter wretchedness, they prostrated before the champion Esfandiyar, begging for their lives and swearing to embrace the Good Religion and worship at the sacred fires. Hearing their desperate pleas, Esfandiyar granted them quarter for both body and soul. He cried out to the Iranian host, commanding the noble warriors to sheath their swords, cease the slaughter, bind no more captives, and trample no longer upon the fallen.
Obeying the command of their prince, the Iranian army withdrew from the wounded, returned to their camp, and beat the drums of triumph, celebrating through the dark night a victory worthy of Rostam himself. But as the dark night gave way to dawn, illuminating a desert that had drunk rivers of blood, King Goshtasp rode onto the field of battle alongside his chief captains. The monarch walked among the slain, weeping for every fallen warrior until his eyes rested upon the broken body of his beloved brother Zarir, lying pitilessly upon the trampled earth.
At this heartbreaking sight, King Goshtasp tore his royal garments, leapt down from his horse, and clutched his beard in agony. He wept bitter tears for the lion of Balkh, calling him the pillar of the realm, the light of the world, and the crown of the army. With his own hands, the King wiped the dust and blood from Zarir's face and laid him within a golden coffin. Other noble youths and princes were likewise enshrined in caskets. Then the King ordered a grim census of the battleground: thirty thousand Iranians had fallen, including seven hundred renown lords, while the enemy suffered a loss of one hundred thousand slain—a devastating testament to the terrible cost of the war.