بخش 13

In the fury of battle, the son of Jamasp—the king’s counselor—rode forth, a noble fighter whose bearing recalled the son of Dastan, Sam. Mounting a swift, dark charger, he stood before the ranks of the Chinese and invoked the lord of Behzad. He called for a lion-hearted foe to face the soul-severing spear, and a stout challenger stepped forward, upright as a pillar. The two gallant riders clashed with mace and lance, with sword and arrow. The champion held the prize of honor with the strength of a lion, and no bold horseman could withstand him; with sharp wrath and a heart stoked by the blood of the fallen, he plunged into the enemy’s line. In that tumult—wind rising from the mountain’s skirts—the two armies grappled and black dust swelled from both hosts. Amid the chaos the radiant Kaveh standard fell from Persian hands; the champion dismounted, lifted the indigo banner from the dust, shook the grime free and cleansed it. When the warriors of Chin saw that famed spearman bearing the standard away, they encircled him, striking at his hand with their blades; he clamped Fereydun’s banner between his teeth and, astonishingly, swung his mace with a single hand. In the end they slew him pitifully and flung him low upon the heated earth—alas for that tigerish rider whom the wise elder would never see again. Then Bostur the lion, scion of the Kayanids and son of Zariir, fell upon countless foes in the evil hour and returned to his father victorious and glad. After him came the chosen rider, and the lord of the world, Newzar, mounted a swift blue steed; with a ringing cry he summoned the chosen host. The warriors of Chin charged him, but he, like a fortress-wise elephant and a rampant lion, wheeled around them as though treading the very earth beneath his stirrups; with his battle-mace he slew sixty men among the world’s champions, until a shaft of fate—an arrow sent from the turning heavens—found him. He tumbled from that fair-hued horse and died; alas for the noble rider, peer to his father in stature and grace. Thereafter the war raged for twice seven days; the ground filled with slain and wounded, the pavilions were struck, and field and plain turned tulip-red as blood ran through the wastes—so many had fallen that it was hard to find a path to walk.