A little earlier, Piran had been consulting his own sorcerer, Bazur. Bazur was a cut above the ordinary wizard; for one thing, he also knew Chinese magic, or at least a slightly racist approximation of it, as well as the ancient tongue. “You’re up, battle wizard,” he said respectfully. “Can you climb the mountain and blast them with ice and cold?”

As had happened many, many times before, the two weary armies faced one another the next morning, and their respective leaders did their best to hype their men up. “Charge when I yell!” yelled Human, doing wheelies in front of the ranks. “No, wait, when I yell later. And when you charge, don’t use your lances! Use your swords and maces!”

Heavy and implacable in his glittering armour, Human made his way through the Turanian lines and aimed his spear directly at Tus, who knew exactly what that meant - a real battle of champions. “Who are you?” demanded Tus. First things first. “Are you one of Viseh’s kids? Piran’s brother?” “Yeah,” said Human. “Don’t worry, I know who you are. I’ve seen you enough times - or at least, I’ve seen your back.”

And as the armies approached one another, they soon skidded to a halt, allowing the most powerful warriors to move to the front for the usual duels. The first real Turanian champion to come within earshot of Tus was Arzhang, son of Zira.

The next morning the army lined up once more, led by Tus, who was still somewhat in shock that he’d not only escaped punishment, but somehow gotten his job back.

Bright and early the next morning, there was a thumping on the palace gate. “Hello!” said Rostam cheerily. “Your crown, throne, and signet ring are all happy to have such a noble bearer!” “What do you want,” sighed Kay Khosrow.

Rostam was, indeed, a terrifying figure, but at this point he was quietly at home, perhaps watching football or even making himself a sandwich. He didn't even notice as the army marched towards Kay Khosrow in his palace, growing more nervous with every step. The king was not going to be pleased. By the time they reached the palace, every man was in tears, and it didn’t help when Kay Khosrow looked over them with a cold glare.

Giv and Bizhan trudged sadly back to the army, only to find all their comrades weeping and for similar reasons. Everyone had lost a brother, a father, an uncle, or at minimum a BFF. “This sucks,” said the soldiers. “And your leadership sucks,” said someone in the crowd, and all eyes turned to Fariborz.

“Something’s wrong,” said Giv, squinting in the direction of the battlefield the next morning. “Bahram isn’t back yet.”

Flinching from Bahram’s arrows, the salvage party moved back towards the main Turanian army, where Piran was setting things in order. “Someone’s on the field shooting arrows at us,” reported one of them.

Bahram suddenly stopped short. “Oh, shit.” “Well might you say ‘Oh, shit,’” said his father grimly. “I lost my whip,” said Bahram. “When I went to retrieve Rivniz’s crown, I dropped it.”

Exactly one month later, the two armies lined up once again. Trumpets blared, drums thundered, captains rode up and down bellowing encouragement, and in the middle of the din, Fariborz attempted to make an inspiring speech. “Sure, we might have had some setbacks recently. But now, we fight like lions! If we don’t win, even our weapons and armour will laugh at us!”

Fariborz pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a mess.” “Tell me about it,” said Gudarz. “I actually don’t think we can keep fighting.” “Not in the state we’re in, no,” admitted Gudarz.

“Tus did what?” said Kay Khosrow, flatly disbelieving. “Got drunk-” “No, rewind. Before that.”

Thirty thousand horsemen broke off from the giant horde, moving towards the Persians under cover of darkness. Moving as silently as possible, they first captured and drove away all the herds the Persians had recently captured, killing the herders before they could raise the alarm.

Still weeping many hours and miles later, Tazhav burst into Afrasyab’s throne room and told him everything. Afrasyab just nodded grimly. “Piran, didn’t I tell you to muster an army from all the provinces?” “I’ll get right on that,” said Piran.

The Persian scouts waved and yelled frantically. “The Turanian army’s coming! They’re led by a massive crocodile!”

Tus marched his army onwards, onwards, deeper into Turan, into the territory of Afrasyab’s commander Tazhav, who was rather busy at the moment. The herds wouldn’t take care of themselves.

Of course, this was all small stuff - the Persians had been lucky that they caught Turan relatively unprepared, but Afrasyab wasn’t sitting idly. “I told you so,” he said to Piran. “Kay Khosrow’s revenge.” Piran just nodded and swallowed.

After a few days of mourning and picking through the rubble for whatever hadn’t burned or melted, the Persian army moved on. The early Turanian resistance was scattered at best, since the only real advance army had died at Kalat. Moving unopposed, the Persians went deep into the Turanian countryside, trampling or eating crops and brushing aside any small bands of warriors that tried to stop them.

As the cheerleaders trooped away, and howls and thuds started in the distance, and Farud’s face turned from pale to ashen, Jarireh stood up straighter.  “They might take the castle,” she said to her son’s corpse, “but they are getting nothing out of it.”

A thousand Turkish horsemen arrived that night, entering the fortress of Kalat before the Persian army could get into position to stop them. That put Farud and his men in a much better mood, and everyone was quite confident about the looming battle. Everybody except Jarireh. Consumed by anxiety, she slept in her son’s room that night, and woke both herself and him up by screaming loudly at two in the morning.

“Now who is it?” asked Farud, screening his eyes. “That’s Bizhan,” said Tokhvar. “Giv’s son. Just shoot his horse - like I said, you don’t want to kill too many of them and make too many enemies, and besides, his armour is arrow-proof.”

Farud stared down at the charging Giv in dismay. “These idiots. These brave, stupid idiots. Why do they keep charging me one at a time, while I have a ranged weapon?”

As Zarasp’s horse fled back down the mountain, the Persian army howled with grief. Tus, his eyes streaming with tears, yanked his cuirass over his head and charged up the hill himself, ignoring the shouts of “Sir! Sir!” “Oh, shit,” said Tokhvar, his eyes widening as he looked down the path. “We might have a problem.”