No one knows why wizards are so particular about towers. It seems impractical, too many stairs, and always on top of a mountain for some reason. Druids live in forests; sorcerers rent the cheapest rooms and get into fights with university students over day-old bread; witches live wherever they please; necromancers tend to keep themselves near graveyards but are generally asked to leave town within a few weeks, especially after what they did to grandma. Wizards are a special case.
Granted, a tower provides some advantages. Good view, for one thing. Remote location, few neighbours, and who wants to bother with people borrowing flour when there are secrets of fabulous power to explore? Also, no complaints about the noise late at night, not even about profanity being yelled in fifteen different languages, six of which had last been used by centuries-dead kings, as was the case for a comparatively small stone-grey tower with an unimaginatively brown roof somewhere in the northern mountain region.
Inside the tower, in an overstuffed study, a gnarled finger stabbed at a map and indicated a region called the Midlands in a neighbouring but boringly peaceful country. A now-calm voice said: “This is the only explanation. Find her.”
The listeners tried to keep the trembling to a minimum so as not to incite another bout of arcane bolts. In a wizard tower with a noise-blocking spell attached to every window no one can hear you scream.
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A long time ago in a country not that far away, actually, just a little to the left, wizards waged war. Lightning dove from the blackened skies. The earth under their feet was scorched by fire mages and so soggy from the spells of water mages that more than one pointy boot had been sacrificed. Staves clashed thunderously. Red and green sparks flew. All in all, it was a regular Saturday.
Until the other wizard entered the battlefield, carrying the orb.
A red cloud congealed over the warring factions. White light contorted and flowed, dragged from every head, towards the ancient orb. And as one man, the wizards dropped to their knees, their powers vanished.
The other wizard waved his staff once. The field became very quiet.
Except for the soft gurgling of the wizard as the knife was removed from his back. His apprentice didn’t even bother to clean it on his former master’s robes as he picked up the orb and smiled the secret smile of all usurpers whose name is destined to disappear from archives for deeds too disturbing to be kept on innocent paper.
And so it went on. Fact became legend. Legend became myth. Myth became footnotes in endless tomes about ancient history foisted on wizard students who fell asleep over the widely varying accounts of the magical conflict. That was then.