At the Median command post, on a hill overlooking the battlefield, Azhidahak stared in disbelief at his shattered front line.
His face had turned purple with rage and humiliation, and the veins on his neck were swollen.
He slammed his clenched fist on the wooden rail of his chariot and roared, "What is this disgrace?"
"How dare this flock of shepherds resist the great Median army?"
"They are sorcerers! That child is a demon!"
He was ready to blindly send the second wave of infantry to crash against the same steel wall, but a firm, calm hand rested on his arm.
"Be calm, my king."
It was the voice of "Mazares," an elderly general with a salt-and-pepper beard and a face where every line told the story of a battlefield.
Unlike the other commanders who trembled from the king's anger, he looked into Azhidahak's eyes with a steel-like calm.
"Anger is not a commander's best advisor."
"They are not sorcerers, sire. They are disciplined. Something we have forgotten to be."
These words landed like a slap on Azhidahak's face, but before the king could respond, Mazares continued.
"Their center is like a rock. Sending more waves of infantry towards it will result in nothing but the pointless sacrifice of our men."
He pointed to both sides of the field with his hand.
"But every rock has foundations that rest in soft soil."
"Look at their flanks. They have few cavalry, and their infantry on the sides does not have the experience of the center."
"They look soft and penetrable."
Azhidahak sneered with contempt. "And what is your suggestion, old general? Do you want us to negotiate with them?"
Mazares paid no attention to this blatant insult.
"No, my king. My suggestion is to use our greatest strength."
"Something they do not have."
He pointed to the massive Median cavalry, which waited behind the army like a boundless sea.
"Allow me to outflank them with the cavalry."
"We will squeeze them between our two steel arms and descend upon them from behind."
"Then, that proud rock will shatter from within."
Azhidahak thought for a moment in silence about Mazares's intelligent plan.
This plan smelled of victory; a decisive victory that could wash away this initial stain of shame from his army's honor.
He nodded reluctantly. "Very well, Mazares. Do your work."
"But if you fail... your head will be the first thing on a spear to console my heart."
Mazares gave a short bow. "Our victory is guaranteed, my king."
Immediately, the command was issued.
The sound of dozens of horns with a different, rapid tune echoed through the Median camp.
This was the sound of the cavalry charge.
From both sides of the field, a massive sea of fifteen thousand Median horsemen began to move.
The ground trembled under their horses' hooves, and a dust so thick rose into the air that it seemed two sandstorms were forming from either side.
Instead of a direct attack, they began to outflank the lines of the Persian army with a wide and terrifying maneuver.
From the Persian command hill, Kourosh, upon seeing this move, felt for the first time a chill run down his spine.
He knew this maneuver. It was a classic pincer movement.
"They... they are much smarter than I thought," he whispered under his breath.
Cambyses shouted with concern, "They want to surround us! We must do something!"
This movement, like the two arms of a giant beast, was preparing to squeeze and crush the small Persian army between them.
Arash, who was in the center of the field, upon seeing this scene, quickly ordered the horn player beside him to sound the alarm for the flanks.
He shouted to Bagpat and the other flank commanders, "Be careful! They are outflanking you! Hold your lines!"
But it was too late.
The Median beast had opened its arms to embrace its prey.