Midhir returned to the fire. “Here, Cuchulain Bearslayer, this night it’s the champion’s portion for yourself,” he said warmly, bringing forth a dripping gobbet of meat larger than his hand.
The flames commanded Cormac’s eyes, and his gaze was as if trapped by the dancing tongues and feather-shapes of yellow and orange, crimson and white…
The champion’s portion… Cu-Chulain… the Hound of Chulan… Cuchulain of Muirthemne…
– and then Cormac mac Art was oblivious of the proffered meat, and the voices of these his companions, for he was no longer with them…
He stood in a fine shining chariot drawn by two horses with the spirit of spring breezes and springs. Mourning was on him for his driver just slain, his long-time driver and old friend Laeg, and he hurled again his spear of victory into the ranks of the gathered enemy, and its gleaming bronze point drove through a man so that he died and him behind that one was hurled backward by the point’s bursting through the first and nigh entering his belly.
And then another of the gathered enemy leaped forward, and tore free that much-blooded spear, the gau-buaid, and hurled it even as Cormac whipped up his fine team of horses-
No! Not Cormac; no son of Art was he, with sword of blue-grey steel by side, but him born Setalta and later called the hound of the smith, Chulan-Cuchulain he was, and battling the enemy who had never forgot the terrible War of the two bulls, the Brown of Cuailgne and the White-horned of Cruachan Ai. And the spear drove into one of his chariot horses, the finest in all the land, even the Grey of Macha, King of the horses of Eirinn, and him having served Cuchulain so long and so well. And he, he, Cormac who was Cuchulain, cried out, for it was another friend he’d lost this day, and life and time were closing on him the way that in his anguished mind he heard anew the druid’s words of his youth:
“If any young man should be taking up arms this day, his name will be greater than any other name in Eirrin. But his span of life will be short.” And the boy Cuchulain had immediately gone and taken up arms, aye and reddened them that day, and too he had sworn his oath of glory: “I swear by the oath of my people that I will make my deeds to be spoken of among the great deeds of heroes in their strength.”
And indeed his name became thereafter, greater than any in all Eirrin, in Emain Macha or Uladh or Laigen that was Leinster, or Cruachan Ai to become Connacht, or Tuathmumain that was become Munster.
Then, while in the midst of the enemy he anguished over the Gray of Macha that lay kicking before his chariot so that it tore free of pole and harness, he of the enemies of Cuchulain whose name was Lugaid hurled his throwing-spear of enchantment, and Cuchulain grunted and was staggered at feel of the terrible blow.
(By the fire in the wood of Connacht, young Cormac jerked and groaned so that his companions asked in concern if he had wounds on him that did not show.)
He looked down then, he who was not yet Cormac for centuries were in the way of it, and he felt the cold that came after the blow to his body, and he saw then that the spear had gone into him. In anger rather than horror he tore it from his middle, for it was long and did tug heavily at him. But then, liberated, his bowels began to coil out onto the cushions of his chariot. Down fell his arm that held Dubhan his shield, and he could not force his other hand to draw forth Cruaidin Calcidheann, the Hard, Hard-headed One, his great bronze sword of so many deeds, and the Hound of Chulan knew then that his life’s span would indeed be short. For Lugaid had surely given him his deadly wound.
Then did his other horse and companion of so many battles strain, and find that his partner was loose of the chariot, and the Black Sanglain lunged forward into a gallop so that had not Cuchulain gripped the chariot before him he’d have been hurled free. Spears whizzed amid the cries of his enemies, who had stood silent as if in awe and disbelief that he could be so wounded. And the Grey of Macha that was the King of all the horses of Eirinn left there to die among his enemies.
Down onto the strand beside the loch galloped the Balck Sanglain, drawing the chariot alone in his bolting, and it struck a great rock at the water’s edge so that it bounded high and landed on its side, and Cuchulain was hurled from it.
Then did he put shame on his enemies that were shouting after him, and indeed on all men. For he set his teeth and gathered up his guts to himself, and with the aid of his other hand and the chariot, he dragged himself to the edge of the water, and Cuchulain drank and washed himself that he might not die so filthy with dirt and blood and sweat before his enemies. And again by the aid of the chariot, he gained his feet with a lurch and a grunt.
A great slashing cold pain ran all through him from where his hand clutched his entrails to himself, and seeped blood between his fingers. And his enemies stood hushed whilst they stared, for he walked, and with his death-wound on him.
Each time his foot came down on the sandy earth the jar seemed worse than had he leaped from the top of a mighty oak, but Cuchulain walked. His eyes stared only ahead, at the great standing rock rising from the sand, and Cuchulain walked. His feet moved, one and then the other and then the first again, the while he clutched himself the way that his bowels did not spill forth and trip him. And his blood leaked and leaked, and he walked.
He walked, in an agony of pain, and surely when they had gone a million miles, his mind on naught but lifting his one foot and putting it down, and then the other, he had paced along the loch to the standing stone that had been raised there, for it was a pillar-stone.
They see a dead man walk, he thought, and clamped his teeth against a groan when he paused at the stone taller than he, the greatest hero Eirrin would ever know, with his guts slippery in his hands: His head swam and the world was red-tinged though sunset was hours away, and he clung to himself, holding back blood and looping bowels with one hand while with the other he worked.
Hours seemed to pass while he leaned against the pillar-stone, and got loose his breast-belt with a bloody hand, and then his loin-girding belt. Buckled together, he looped them over the standing stone, and set his broad back to it, the while his eyes saw a darkening red fog that was somehow also a sound, a throbbing continuing thunder in his ears. And he made shift to fasten the belt over the hole in him, and secured himself thus to the pillar-stone beside the loch. A terrible grunting groan escaped even his set lips that ground powder from his teeth for he had tugged tight the belt and yet had not the strength to hold tight his jaws the longer. And his mouth came open, and leaked blood upon his chest that was like unto that of a bear.
Yet he knew his ribs would not hold his heart, for his great hero’s heart was turned all to blood within him.
But he stood. He had bound himself upright against the stone, the way he would not meet his death lying down before his enemies, like the normal man he had never been. And though he saw only dimly, he knew then that the host of his enemies came down onto the strand, shields and spears ready, and she knew that he faced them standing erect with heels braced and guts bound up so they could not spill from within him, and even now they in their company were in dread of approaching him closely. Laughter he would have given them then, but he knew he dared not, for the strain of that laughter might sunder the straps of leather holding back the bowels that strained and sought to pour looping from him.
For he was Cuchulain of Muirthemne, and he’d die on his feet and facing his enemies. And a cloud and a weakness rose to come over him, so that his eyes were fixed.
“It is a great shame for us,” said Erc who was the son of Cairbre whom Cuchulain had slain, “not to strike the head off this man, in revenge for his striking the head off my father!”