Thork growled as he held the axe in his right hand. He glared at his brother who stood on the other side of the arena. Both were bare chested and wore leather trousers. Both had one weapon of choice. This was a Mak’gora, a duel of status. The victor would become Gath'Ilzogg’ second, the lower demoted to the status of peon or something less, death. ‘There can be only one, brother.’ Torgarr grumbled. ‘I hope for your sake you will not go soft on me. I wish to kill you when you are on your prime.’ Thork glared. ‘Bring it, fool.’ Gath'Ilzogg sat on a self styled throne as he rose his hand. ‘Begin.’