Part 12

Rostam spurred Rakhsh on in a rush, driving straight at the back of the warrior Afrasiyab. He said to Rakhsh: My good companion, do not falter now in the heat of battle. For I will take the king's life on your back, and stain the stones red as coral with his blood. Rakhsh, born of fire, grew so hot that you would think wings had sprouted from his flanks. From his saddle strap Rostam loosed the lasso, meaning to bring the enemy down in its coils. The loop of leather settled around the Turk, but the Turkish commander slipped his neck free. And the swift steed beneath him leapt from the spot, blazing away like fire. The mighty champion sprang after the lasso, mouth parched, his body soaked with the sweat of struggle. Of all the army's warriors ready for the fight, two out of three never returned to their tents. Whether killed or wounded, they were left captive in the hands of that host. Priceless horses with gilded harness, helmets, and swords in golden sheaths, and besides these, whatever else was most precious: a great store of it was left to the Iranians. No one loosened the belt of a fallen man; they did not search out the fugitives who had fled. They came back to that hunting ground, wanting for nothing good. They wrote a letter to King Kavus about the Turks and about the hunting field, and how not one of the brave men had been killed; only Zavareh had taken a fall from his horse, nothing more. On that blessed plain the champion, bright of spirit, stayed for two full weeks. On the third week they came to the king's court, to look upon his fortunate crown. Such is the way of this fleeting inn we call the world: one man lives at ease, another in pain. This way or that, the day passes all the same; why should a wise person grieve? The words of this tale have reached their end; now I will tell the story of Sohrab and Rostam.