When Rostam realized that all entreaties and soft words were in vain against the unyielding pride of Esfandiyar—who demanded nothing less than putting the World-Champion in chains—he reached for his bow with a heavy heart. He nocked the straight tamarisk arrow, which had been crafted under the Simorgh's guidance and tempered in wine and ancient magic. Turning his face toward the heavens, Rostam prayed to the Almighty Lord of the Sun: 'O Creator of wisdom, glory, and strength! You behold my pure soul and know how desperately I sought to turn Esfandiyar away from this unholy strife. You know he fights unjustly, boasting of his power; do not punish me in the afterlife for what I am forced to do!'
Seeing Rostam hesitate, Esfandiyar hurled taunts, calling him a faithless warrior of Sistan and boasting that the arrows of Goshtasp and spears of Lohrasp would now pierce his heart. He shot a shaft that grazed Rostam's helmet. But Tahamtan, obeying the exact counsel of the Simorgh, released the double-pointed tamarisk twig. The arrow struck with devastating precision straight into Esfandiyar's eye. The world went pitch black before the bronze-bodied prince; his tall, cypress-like posture collapsed, wisdom and divine farr departed from him, and his prized Chachi bow slipped from his hand. Clinging desperately to the mane of his black charger, his blood stained the battlefield scarlet.
Rostam, witnessing the unfolding of fate, declared: 'You have harvested the fruit of your own arrogance! You boasted of your impenetrable bronze body and that you would strike high heaven to earth. I took eight of your arrows without groaning for honor's sake, yet a single shaft has laid you low upon your mount!' With that, the glorious prince tumbled senseless from his horse onto the dust. After a moment, he regained consciousness, sat up in the dirt, and pulled the bloody shaft and feathers from his ruined eye.
News of the darkened royal farr swiftly reached Prince Bahman and Peshotan. Both ran barefoot across the field toward the fallen hero. Finding him drenched in blood, Peshotan tore his robes and cast dust upon his head, while Bahman threw himself down, rubbing his face in his father's warm blood. Peshotan wept bitterly: 'O mighty Esfandiyar! You who drew the sword of vengeance to establish the Good Religion and cleansed the realm of idolaters—how has your crowned head come to dust in the flower of your youth? Cursed be this throne, cursed be Goshtasp and Jamasp who dispatched such a lion to his doom!'
Esfandiyar opened his pain-filled eyes and comforted his brother: 'Do not destroy yourself in grief, Peshotan. Dust is the ultimate bed for all who are slain. Where are Fereydun, Hushang, and Jamshid? All must depart this transient inn. I strove to fulfill the will of Yazdan and block the path of Ahriman. But hear this: the son of Zal did not slay me through mortal heroism—look at this branch of tamarisk in my hand! It was this wood, the spellcraft of Zal, and the remedy of the Simorgh that brought my days to an end.' Hearing these words, Rostam wept bitterly, acknowledging that Esfandiyar spoke no lie, and that fate had merely used the tamarisk arrow as its chosen instrument.