Nathaniel braces himself against the gate and begins to walk it forward. The grinding rumbling of stone against stone fills the air, and he has no doubt that the mages as well as Iskandar are doing the brunt of the work. Bit by bit, the gate inches forward. When it is at about a forty-five degree angle, the grinding sounds almost mask the telltale click of a switchplate being depressed.

"STOP!" he bellows. "Nobody move." He looks down at his feet--nothing there. Nothing at Malcolm's feet. Iskandar, however, is standing directly on top of the culprit--a wide switchplate that was flush with the floor, so it did not interfere with the gate, but once stepped on, it sank about an inch below floor level.

"Don't move, Iskandar. Everyone stand back while I have a look about." With that, he is off, studying the area immediately around the switchplate and following with his eyes to where there ought to be other mechanisms to work the trap it will trigger. And it will trigger. Dwarves have abandoned this thaig, but Nathaniel has never found a dwarven trap that stopped working because of something as silly as time.