Mihrāb, the ruler of Kabūl, was the leader of one wing of the Persian army, and Gustāhem of the other, while Rustem led the front, and the glorious banner of Kāvah[249] was flung to the breeze. The Tūrānian king rode in black armor at the head of his dark legions, while his ablest generals led the wings and protected the rear of his vast army.
There was one terrific onslaught in which it seemed as if heaven and earth had closed in deadly conflict. The clattering of hoofs, the shrill roar of the trumpets and the rattle of brazen drums were mingled with the cries of dying men, while the glittering spear hastened to the deadly work, and the Tartar king believed that the imperial crown of Persia was just within his reach.
When the tide of battle ebbed for a moment, Rustem shouted to his father that he intended to engage the hostile monarch in single combat, but Zāl endeavored to dissuade him from so hopeless a task.
“My son, be wise and peril not thyself; Black is his banner, and his cuirass black— His limbs are cased in iron—on his head He wears an iron helm—and high before him Floats the black ensign; equal in his might To ten strong men.... Then beware of him. Rustem replied: ’Be not alarmed for me— My heart, my arm, my dagger, are my castle.”
He bravely urged his splendid horse toward the foe, and the warriors closed in a long and doubtful struggle. At last, however, Rustem caught him by the belt and dragged him from his horse. He intended to drive his captive thus to the Persian king, but the belt gave way and the Tartar fell upon the ground, and was quickly borne off by his own warriors, but not before Rustem had snatched off the monarch’s crown, which he carried away as a trophy with the broken girdle.
The fight now became general again, and the earth shook with the trampling of the steeds; the drums rattled; loud clamors from the troops echoed around, and by the mailed hands of contending warriors many a life was sacrificed. With his huge mace, cow-headed, Rustem flooded the ground with the crimson blood of his foes, and wherever seen he was impatiently urging forward his fiery horse. Severed heads fell like the withered leaves in autumn when he brandished his sword, horseman and steed falling together. On that dreadful day, with sword and dagger, battle-ax and noose,[250] he cut and tore, and broke and bound the brave, slaying and making captive. The Tartar hordes fled in dismay, and their black banner trailed upon the earth until captured by the Persian troops.