Driven by deceit and a heart poisoned with malice, the King of Kabul rode swiftly to the designated hunting grounds accompanied by a battalion of ditch-diggers. Across the length and breadth of the plain, hidden beneath the trodden tracks, they dug deep pits. Within their depths, they embedded upright sharp blades, javelins, and ruthless swords, concealing the deadly openings with brushwood and dried grass so cleverly that neither human eye nor beast could perceive the trap. Learning that Rostam had set out without his army, Shaghad dispatched a swift rider to instruct the King to put his fraudulent plan into motion.
The lord of Kabul marched out from the city. The moment his gaze met the imposing stature of Tahamtan, he dismounted his steed, cast aside his Indian turban, pulled off his boots, and walked barefoot with tears flowing like blood from his eyes. He pressed his face against the dark earth, begging forgiveness for Shaghad's insolence and pleading that his transgressions were merely the folly of drunkenness. The noble and open-hearted Rostam pitied him, pardoned his offense, and even elevated his royal standing.
The King then escorted Rostam to a verdant paradise near Kabul—a sanctuary filled with bubbling springs and shady trees. There, they spread a grand banquet, setting out fine wines and calling forth minstrels. Amidst the feasting, the King painted glowing pictures of a magical hunting ground teeming with wild sheep, gazelles, and wild asses, kindling Rostam's passion for the chase. Unwittingly, Rostam succumbed to the temptation, for when the appointed hour of Fate approaches, the human heart wavers and the eye of wisdom is struck blind. Before the inescapable hand of Death, the elephant and the gnat, the leopard of the plain and the sea-monster share the exact same fate.
At dawn, Rostam ordered Rakhsh to be saddled and the hunting falcons readied. Stringing his royal Kianian bow, he rode out alongside Shaghad, his brother Zavareh, and a select retinue of nobles. As the hunting party dispersed across the field, Destiny steered Rostam and Zavareh directly along the fatal path riddled with hidden pits.
As the mighty Rakhsh approached the concealed traps, his keen senses caught the fresh odor of newly turned soil. Terrified by the scent of danger beneath, the noble steed curled his body, balked, and tore at the turf with his hooves, refusing to advance. But Fate had cast a shroud over Rostam’s wisdom; enraged by Rakhsh’s sudden hesitation, the champion raised his whip and struck his loyal mount to force him forward.
Trapped in the tight space between two hidden pits and seeking desperately for a path of escape, Rakhsh lunged forward. In an instant, his forelegs gave way and he plunged straight into the pit. The bottom was a forest of upturned spears and razor-sharp blades. The flank of the mighty steed was torn open, and the lethal steel pierced deep into the chest and limbs of the great champion. Yet, through supreme, superhuman resolve, Rostam summoned his remaining strength and dragged his mangled, bleeding body up from the depths of the pit onto the brink.