The Destruction
of Da Derga’s Hostel
The Birth of a King and the First Breaking of Order
Long before the firelight flared against the beams of Da Derga’s hall, long before the riders thundered through the night, there was a prophecy. A quiet, unsettling one that was older than Conaire Mór himself.
King Eterscél of Tara had no heir. His court grumbled, his druids warned him, and the land felt restless beneath his rule. One night, seeking a sign, Eterscél wandered through Tara’s outer chambers and came upon a mysterious woman standing in the shadows. She was a stranger, a flame-haired wanderer. Her face bright as moonlight on water.
The druids whispered:
“She is of the sidhe -- the Otherworld. She carries destiny."
Whether she came willingly or whether destiny pushed her into the king’s path, none could say. But from her, a child was conceived. When the boy was born, the omens gathered around him like birds settling on a branch.
The druids said:
“One will be conceived by a woman of unknown origin, and he will be the true king of Ireland."
This child was Conaire Mór, fostered among warriors and taught the laws of honour and truth. He grew straight-backed, bright-eyed, and steady as a spear planted in good ground.
Everywhere he went, peace followed.
Raids quieted.
Rivalries eased.
The land seemed to breathe easier beneath his feet.
So when Eterscél died without a lawful son, the druids declared:
“The boy of prophecy must be king."
And the people agreed.
Conaire stood at Tara’s stone of kingship, and the land accepted him -- for a time.
But every king in Ireland lived under geasa: sacred conditions placed on his behaviour. And Conaire’s geasa were many:
• He must not follow three red men traveling together.
• He must not deny shelter to anyone who sought it.
• He must not hunt birds, for his mother’s people were of them.
• He must not stray eastward after sunset.
Straight forward enough for a cautious man.
But destiny, as ever, loves to tighten its knots.
The breaking of a geis is a quiet thing at first , a hairline crack in the king’s bond with the land. But once made, the world begins to shift, subtle as a change in the wind.
Conaire Mór rode home from that encounter with the three red men, trying to shake off the unease. He still had the loyalty of his warriors, the blessing of Tara, and the goodwill of the land. But beneath it all, something had tilted. The balance was no longer perfect.
The Birds in the Sky
That evening, Conaire walked alone near the ramparts of Tara and saw a flock of birds diving and wheeling in strange patterns, as though fleeing something unseen.
They were no ordinary birds, their movements felt deliberate, almost human. Their cries were sharp enough to prickle the hairs on his arms.
And he remembered another of his geasa:
“He shall not hunt birds; he shall do no harm to the winged kind."
His mother had come from the sIdhe in bird-form, they said.
Birds were messengers.
Watchers.
Witnesses.
The Strangers on the Strand
One night, while riding near the sea, Conaire encountered a group of men gathering driftwood on the shore. Their faces were hidden, their accents strange, their bearing too confident for simple wanderers.
“From where do you come?" Conaire asked.
“We come from the sea," one answered, “and from places beyond naming."
The High King felt a tremor of foreboding. Something in their voices touched the old stories of outlawed kin, men who had once broken faith with the land and fled into the shadows.
He offered them peace, for he was still bound by the geis of hospitality, but they slipped away into the dusk, shadows blending with the tide.
The Pull Eastward
When the king and his company set out again the next morning, they intended to return to Tara. But the wind changed. The horses veered. A strange heaviness pulled them eastward along the road.
Conaire’s companions murmured uneasily.
“High King, we should turn back. This road leads to nothing but omens."
But Conaire knew, in that deep way kings sometimes do, that some roads are chosen for you, and to resist would only tear the fabric further. And so they continued eastward, though doing so nudged another geis toward breaking:
“He must not travel east after sunset."
They pressed on as twilight thickened, the sky bruising purple, the light thinning toward night.
Soon the torches of a great hostel appeared ahead, warm, bright, and welcoming.
Da Derga’s Hostel. A place of refuge. A place of doom.
The Man of Fire
Da Derga himself was a strange figure, neither king nor outlaw, but a wandering lord whose name meant Red God or Red Flame. His hostels were famous across Ireland: safe havens where all, noble or poor, were fed and sheltered.
When he saw the High King approaching, he stood at the door with arms wide.
“Conaire Mór," he called, “you are welcome here."
And by accepting that welcome, Conaire honored one geis, hospitality, but set himself on the path toward breaking another.
The fire inside the hall crackled brightly. The king stepped over the threshold. The night closed behind him like a door. Fate had chosen its place.
The sight of them unsettled him.
Not long after, word reached him that raiders had appeared on Ireland’s coasts, moving with boldness unseen in his peaceful reign. Small things at first: a cattle-lifting here, a theft there.
But each incident struck a little closer to the heart of his kingdom.
The hall of Da Derga blazed with warmth. Torches flared, spits turned, musicians tuned their pipes. It should have been a sanctuary. Yet the moment Conaire Mór crossed the threshold, the atmosphere rippled, as though the very timbers sensed the strain of broken order.
Da Derga greeted him with honour.
The warriors found places at the long benches.
Servants laid out bread, meat, and mead.
But beneath the welcome, an unease stirred, thin as a draught creeping along the floor.
The Porter’s First Vision
At the door sat Fer Caille, the porter, he was a big-shouldered man who had seen enough winters to trust his instincts. Every so often he leaned into the night air, frowning into the darkness.
Suddenly he stiffened.
“Who comes there?" Conaire asked.
The porter answered slowly:
“I see a lone rider, dark of face, with a single garment, one shoe, one spear, one horse. He asks if the High King is within."
Conaire felt a chill.
A single rider, half-clad, half-armed; such figures often belonged to prophecy or doom.
“Let him in," the king said.
He still honoured the geis of hospitality, though his heart warned him otherwise.
The rider entered, bowed stiffly, and took his place by the fire without a word. His presence felt like a smudge of shadow in the bright hall.
The Second and Third Visions
Not long after, Fer Caille called out again.
“Three riders now, each with only one shoe, one cloak, one spear. They ask for the king."
Conaire swallowed hard.
This was no coincidence.
These were echoes, reflections, of the first breach, the three red men he had followed on the road.
“Let them in," he said again, though the words tasted of dread.
The three entered, their faces unreadable. They sat together, silent as tombstones.
A third time the porter’s voice rang out, strained now:
“A great troop approaches, fierce men, their faces marked, their weapons jagged, their gait like wolves. They demand entry."
This time the hall fell silent.
These were no travellers seeking shelter. These were men with a purpose, a purpose that twined around the king’s broken geasa like binding cords.
The Returning Outlaws
Into the hall strode Inge and his kin, men once banished for raiding and blood-feud, now returned to settle old debts under cover of Conaire’s unravelling fate. Their leader carried a cruel grin.
“High King," he said lightly, “we heard you were abroad on the roads. We thought to pay our respects."
Their eyes told the truth: they had come for destruction.
Conaire’s warriors tensed. Hands hovered near hilts. But hospitality bound them, as long as the king gave welcome, the outlaws must be tolerated within the hall.
And Conaire, cornered by his own sacred laws, could not deny them entry.
The Fire That Would Not Hold
As the night deepened, the hall’s great fire suddenly dimmed, not from lack of fuel, but as though some unseen force drew the heat away.
Da Derga frowned.
“That has never happened in this house."
A murmur passed through the company.
The king rose, unease tightening his chest.
Then, from outside, a sound rolled across the night, a battle-cry, distant but unmistakable.
Another followed. And another.
The outlaws’ eyes gleamed.
They knew their allies were gathering.
The king’s geasa, once protections, had become snares tightening around him.
He could not leave the hall. He could not refuse shelter. He could not undo the woven fate now closing in.
The Veil Between Worlds Thins
Just before midnight, Fer Caille called out once more, but this time his voice trembled.
“A woman comes, tall, pale, with red hair unbound. Her eyes are like fire. She carries a wand of silver. She says doom is at hand."
Conaire’s breath caught. He knew her lineage. She was one of the sidhe, kin to the mother who had borne him.
“Let her speak," he said quietly.
She stepped into the doorway, the wind swirling around her.
“Conaire Mór," she said, “you have broken your geasa. The land cannot shield you. The outlaws come. The night will not pass without blood."
The hall held its breath.
Conaire bowed his head.
He had been a good king, a peace-king, but even the best of rulers falter when fate tightens.
And now, that fate stood at the door, waiting for the first spark to catch