Throughout that day the battle rolled and raged. No time to eat or drink Cuchulain gave, but from the dewy morn to fall of night he wrought upon his foes death-dealing blows, cutting them down as hailstones crush small flowers. And though he was alone against a host, they fled in terror from his path, so like a god of battles and of war the hero seemed. In his first onset men and horses, hounds and charioteers gave way before him, as the corn gives way, bowing before the scythe; and all around his path the bodies of the slain were piled. Throughout the day, they rallied once and then again, but still they could not take him whole or strike him dead. From off his helmet and the armour ScÁth had given, their weapons broke and shattered in their hands; no sword would wound, no spear would pierce his skin. His chariot-steeds, like horses god-possessed, trampled their men to death; the fire breathing from their nostrils consumed all who ventured near. Thus through the hosts from side to side Cuchulain urged his steeds, and all his way was heaped and piled with dead. Twice seemed it that the victory was his, but at the last, the warriors rallied and held him back. Then, at the third time, the Wild Women-Goblins of the Blast, who watched the fight, screaming above the slain, swooped down. Into the hands of Luga and young Erc, but late ascended Tara’s royal seat, and into the dread hand of dark Curoi, they placed the venomous spears of magic might brought out of fairy-land. “The time is come,” said they; “take these and strike; with each of these three spears a king shall fall.”

Together those three foes drew near, and first Curoi threw his weapon, aiming it at Cu. But from his mantle once again it swerved, missing its mark. But glancing off from him, it pierced the Grey of Macha, pinning the gallant creature to the ground.

Cuchulain, when he saw his steed transfixed, without a thought for his own safety, bounded from his chariot, and stooped to draw the weapon from the wound; but for all he tugged and pulled, he could not get it out. While he was bending down to help his steed, Erc, the young king of Erin, flung the second spear, hoping to kill Cuchulain. It touched his hip and wounded him, but fell upon his charioteer, inflicting a mortal wound. “Alas, my little Cu,” cried Laeg, “by this wound now I die; never before in any fight or foray that we have faced together have I been wounded past thy guard!”

“Not past, but through me went that spear,” Cuchulain said, “see, I am hurt by it. My blessing with thee, Laeg, and leave me now, ere faintness falls on thee; seek shelter far beyond the host, thither will I in safety lead the way. If haply thou shouldst escape and live so long, back to Dun Dalgan make thy way, where Emer of the waving hair still looks for my return. My blessing take to her and my dear love; tell her I love her yet, and had I lived, not all the women of the whole globe’s space would e’er have lured or drawn my love from her. Tell her again, tell Conor and tell Conall, how for their sakes I wage this awful fight, tight closed in grips with all the hosts of Meave. ’Tis Ulster’s honour and mine own I avenge. Let Emer weep awhile that I am dead, and mourn my loss; surely she will not live when I am gone. Yet for their bitter weeping and their tears, the dead return not to their friends who mourn. My blessing take, O Laeg; no chariot-chief had ever man so faithful and so true. My word I swear upon my weapons here, all Erin’s hosts shall hear how I avenged thy loss. In grief and gloom we part! Thou goest and Emer goes! No more as in old days from foreign lands in gallant glee shall I return to her.”

Thus to each other, in heaviness and grief, the hero and his servant bade farewell. Yet for awhile, so long as he could stand, from a low hillock Laeg looked on and watched the fight. Then (for the Black Steed followed him, and would not turn away) upon the back of his own chariot-horse he took his way straight to Cuchulain’s home.

But after his farewell, the hero turned him back into the fray, and on his foes he took a fierce revenge. No sword or armour could withstand his blows. On every side he seemed to be at once, now here, now there, dealing death-bearing wounds. Before him, and on every side, the men of Erin fled, while, like the avenging god of war, Cuchulain pressed behind.

Then when the cruel Children of the Blast beheld the rout, one of the three limped to where Luga stood, and ugly was her face, and black her scowl. “Why fling you not the spear we brought to you? A king will fall by it if it is thrown.”

“I heard you say a king would fall before, when Erc and Curoi flung their venomed spears. Yet Cuchulain lives,” Luga replied.

“And so it was,” she said; “the King of Erin’s steeds, the King of Erin’s charioteers have fallen by those spears. One King lives yet, and by your spear the King of Erin’s heroes is to fall.”

Then Luga flung the spear. Straight, vehement, and true the aim he took, and over all the heads of all the host it rose and fell, piercing Cuchulain to the very earth.

Then out of sudden fear the host stood back, seeing Cuchulain fall. No shout went up, but silence deep and awful seized the host. They ceased to fly and turned, but none of all of them advanced to aid or slay the wounded man.

In a wide circle as they turned they stood each leaning on his spear, and in the empty space, near where Cuchulain fell, in silence Luga stood to watch the hero die. Thus all alone, without a single friend, the king of Erin’s mighty heroes lay, dying upon the plain. Slowly Cuchulain rose in mortal pain, and stooped to drag the weapon from the wound; but he could not, for it broke off at the head, leaving the metal fastened in the flesh. And as he tugged, the red blood trickled slowly to his feet and made a stream that ran away along a furrow of the plain. Cuchulain saw an otter that crept up from the rushes on the margin of the lake. Stealthily the creature drew towards him, attracted by the blood, and in a timid way began to drink. It vexed Cuchulain when he saw the cringing beast drinking his blood while he was yet alive, and he ceased tugging at the buried spear-head, and made shift to stoop and pick up the fallen shaft and fling it at the beast. At that a raven came fluttering down and hesitatingly drew near, and dipped its beak into the hero’s blood; but in the slippery stream its claws were caught and so the bird upset. When he saw that, Cuchulain laughed aloud, and well he knew that laugh would be his last.

For, even as he laughed, Death’s mists and swoonings fell on him. He closed his eyes, and when at length he opened them again, the warrior-host had moved, drawn nearer to the place where he was lying still; but such an awe was on them that in that mighty ring of warrior-hosts, armed all with clanking weapons and with arms, no sound was heard; they stood as silent as a nurse might stand within the dark sick-room, to watch the champion die.

Then came a mighty thirst upon the wounded man. “Fain would I go,” he said to them, “and quench my thirst beside the loch.”

“We give thee leave to go,” they said, “but only if thou come again to us.”

“If I come not to you again myself, I bid you come for me,” the hero said.

So he gathered himself together and went slowly to the loch. And he drank his drink and washed himself, and came forth to die, calling upon his foes to come and meet him.

Now his eye lighted upon a tall pillar-stone that was beside the loch in the midst of the plain. And he drew himself to the stone, and leaned his back against it, and with the girdle that was about his breast, he bound himself to the stone, standing up facing the men of Erin. And in his hand he grasped his naked sword and held it up aloft, and in his other hand he took his shield, and placed it close beside him on the ground. For he said, “I will not die before the men of Erin lying down nor sitting on the ground, but I will die before them standing up.” And the Grey of Macha found him where he stood, and came up, dragging the spear that still held in his wound; and it laid its head upon Cuchulain’s breast, weeping great dropping tears of dusky blood. And all about his shoulders hovered carrion birds, yet still the host dared not venture nigh, for the hero’s light shone from his forehead, and they knew not whether he were alive or dead.

Then went Luga near to see if he were yet alive, and as he came beside him, the great sword fell from the dying Champion’s hand, and struck the hand of Luga, and smote it off, so that the sword and hand fell to the ground together. Cuchulain heaved a deep and troubled sigh, and with that sigh his soul parted from his body. Yea, with the greatness of that sigh the pillar-stone was split, as may be seen to this day. Men call it still the Pillar of the Hero’s dying Sigh.