Marvel Novel Series 07 - Doctor Strange - Nightmare Page 11

  Strange smiled. “Ramma, I’ve got to be going. I’m still searching for my love.”

  “Oh, you’ll find her, Stephen. I just hope she’s not an old yulla like me, though.” She sighed deeply. “I do wish I could go shell finding again, out by the silver rocks. Well, I had my share.” She looked at Strange and her toothless mouth bent in a smile. “Good yallooning, Stephen.”

  “Good yallooning, Ramma.”

  “Oh, you silly person. I can’t yalloo.”

  Strange closed the door and sighed. The forty-third portal was before him. He was reluctant to open it. There seemed to be an endless number of dread fates just beyond the mysterious oaken panels. He reached out, opened the door and slammed it shut before it was open more than a few inches.

  The entire opening was a mouth, pink and wet, with a long snakelike tongue that darted toward him, slapping the closing door with a great flapping sound.

  Stephen Strange took a deep breath and stepped to the next door. He glanced down the hall. It diminished in perspective until the walls seemed to merge. There were an infinite number of arched doorways set in stone walls.

  Forty-fourth. He was on a balcony, looking down into a small town. There was some sort of bazaar on the street that passed below. Striped awnings alternated with others sewn or dyed in bright artistic blotches which shaded the sauntering natives from the harsh yellow sun. A tanklike machine rumbled past, raising a little dust. A dragon the size of a large horse limped along wearily, pulling a two-wheeled cart in which lounged a fat man in a purple robe and a conical blue hat. The cart was filled with long, slender blue fish. Fat-domed pots held fires and brown-skinned women sold black sausages to passersby. A tall man in leather armor led a coffle of slaves along the street, their necks linked by a chain. The slaves looked hungrily at the sausages. An unusually tall woman with balloonlike breasts and a towering crimson headdress strode by and was deferred to. An artisan hawked pots in the shape of a multibreasted woman. A helmeted soldier with a long sword casually slapped a child out of his way. The child tumbled, but did not cry, and quickly scurried into the crowd.

  Strange closed the door. The universe was indeed a varied one. The forty-fifth door showed a large brown-orange desert seen from a high angle. Thick towers were all around, but most were in a state of advanced decay, cracked and crumbling. A muddy stream, not much more than a trickle, wandered through broken walls. A red-robed priest knelt on a prayer rug, disemboweling a cat.

  No Clea. Strange leaned against the wall and thought. Would Clea’s odd origin have any bearing on where she might be?

  Seventeen

  Strange had met Clea during his great battle with the dread Dormammu. That sorcerer from a strange dimension had threatened the invasion and destruction of the dimension in which Stephen Strange dwelt, Earth. Strange had gone to that bizarre and surreal time-space dimension, a dimension so alien, so incredible, so utterly beyond human comprehension that there were no words in any earthly language to accurately describe it.

  He had faced Dormammu, a powerful figure whose head was a glowing, steaming pillar of mystic force. “You must never be allowed to hurl your sinister spells against mankind,” Strange had told him, but the mystic magician had laughed at Strange’s assaults.

  “Even the powerful Ancient One cannot stop me, so how can you?” With a wave of his hands the ribbons of that dimension parted, twisted, disappeared, reunited in a bizarre Mobius strip, altering space and the perception of space. But Strange had resisted, barely, the altered state of mind his opponent had created.

  “I warn you to send the Ancient One to fight in your stead,” Dormammu had snarled. “You are too young.” His voice and manner were insulting, and Strange felt the sting to his pride. “Your knowledge of the mystic arts cannot begin to equal mine!”

  Black, white, red, green, blue . . . The universe changed with bewildering rapidity.

  “No, dreaded one,” Strange said. “It is I the Ancient One has sent . . . and it is I you must battle!”

  The Mobius world flattened in a blink. Grotesque statues sat squatly, sacrificial smoke rising from their head bowls. Bizarre shapes hung from the arching black ceiling. Dormammu stood on a gleaming golden square and sneered. “Bah! All through the ages, witless creatures such as you have dared to challenge me . . . and all have met the same deadly fate.” His green-gloved hand pointed a finger at Strange and the glowing force that was his head shimmered. “I shall give you a brief period to reconsider before I summon you to your final battle!”

  Dormammu raised his hand, his long fingers stretched. “For I no longer derive pleasure from defeating weak opponents The sport now bores me!” Dormammu’s hand swept down and in the blink of an eye, Stephen Strange was somewhere else.

  He looked around. He was in a hall with a pool of thick green ooze, surrounded by massive pillars that rose into the darkness. The pillars were carved and inscribed, painted and covered with mosaics, arcane designs, and mystic symbols. He took off his cape and commanded it to stand while he strolled along the golden floor which edged the erratically shaped pool.

  “He sounded so sure of himself,” he thought. “So totally arrogant! Can he really be so completely unbeatable?”

  Every man has areas of uncertainty, especially where he has not been tested. Dormammu’s certainty struck at Strange’s own insecurity. He had to decide whether the master of this bizarre dimension was really as powerful and as knowledgeable as he appeared. David slew Goliath. Power and knowledge alone were not completely the deciding factors. There was still will, determination, righteousness, and right.

  He was deep in thought when he noticed a spot glowing in the air near him. As he looked, the spot dilated to permit a woman to step out of it and stand on the floor before him. She was the nameless woman who had tried to warn him when he had first entered that dimension of the dread Dormammu. He would know her eventually as Clea, but then she was mysterious and nameless.

  “Heed my words, man from another world,” she said urgently to Dr. Strange. “You must not battle Dormammu!”

  “You waste your breath,” Dr. Strange said. “Nothing can stop me! I must save humanity from the dreaded one.” He turned away from her, annoyed that Dormammu had tried such a transparent and ineffectual trick. “Even though I perish in the attempt, I dare not falter. My life means nothing.”

  “No!” Clea said quickly, her voice filled with concern. “It is not only of you I am thinking. If, by some unbelievable miracle, you should triumph, it could mean the end of us!”

  “I do not understand,” Strange said.

  “Then you must be shown!” Clea said. Her eyes burned into Strange’s. “Prepare yourself, Earth mortal . . . Prepare for sights such as no human eyes have ever before beheld!”

  Her hands went out, directing her energies. Dressed in red and black, with distinctive white hair, a red radiance came from her body. In the midst of the radiance a yellow spot appeared, grew into a shimmering rectangle. Strange could see into it, floating unsupported in the air above the golden floor. Down the rectangular passage, lined with shapes that shifted and merged, was a pure whiteness. “Let the entrance appear,” Clea commanded, and the rectangle grew rapidly. “The entrance to . . . the beyond!”

  She looked at Strange with a challenging expression. He nodded, but all his senses—especially his sixth sense—were on full alert.

  “Follow me then,” she said, “and be prepared to witness the incredible!” They floated up from the floor, side by side, and quickly entered the yellow rectangle.

  “I must be vigilant,” Strange thought. “It might be a trap. Yet, my instincts tell me she is sincere.”

  They floated into the pure-white world, into a world of total madness! Tubes of protoplasm, or something like it, writhed through the endless space. There were webs and blobs, floating openings into other worlds, spiny extrusions, dangling tentacles . . .

  “This is but the start of the eerie spectacle you are about to see,” Clea said. �
��For these are the outskirts of Dormammu’s domain, where the mindless ones dwell.”

  They floated out, through traceries of smoke, past tubes and tentacles of pulsating, writhing protoplasm. “The mindless ones?” Strange inquired.

  “Yes,” she said and pointed. “There they are!” Ahead, on a floating island of quivering protoplasm were two great humpbacked manlike beasts. They were fighting, with hamlike fists and with blasts of some sort of ray coming from slits in their wrinkled featureless faces. They fought with unceasing ferocity, and Strange could see reinforcements coming through, climbing out of the openings into this world, their fists clenched.

  “They are primitive, savage, totally devoid of love, or kindness, or any type of intelligence,” Clea said. “They live only to fight . . . and to destroy.” One of the monsters seized another and flung him from the floating island. The defeated creature fell a great distance, caught a throbbing tube of protoplasm and at once began to climb back to begin the fight again.

  “They have lived at the fringe of our dimension since the beginning of time,” Clea said, “ever waiting for a chance to attack us . . . to slay us all!”

  They floated on, but they came too close. One of the gray creatures sent a bolt of energy at them. Strange thrust Clea aside, causing the mindless one’s beam to miss, and he sent back a blast of his own. They slipped past the creatures but Strange wondered why these powerful entities had not conquered all of that dimension before.

  Clea explained that a powerful shield, placed by Dormammu with a great spell, kept the creatures confined. “If anything should happen to him, then all of us in this dimension are doomed,” she said.

  Strange sensed that this white-haired enchantress was telling the truth. “Though he represents a menace to mankind, Dormammu is a protection to his own people,” he thought.

  “That is why you must not defeat him,” Clea insisted as they swam back through the wavering rectangular passage to where she had come to Strange. “Only he can save us from the mindless ones!”

  “Yet if he lives, humanity shall always be in danger,” Strange replied. “I wish to bring no harm to this fantastic world . . . and yet my first duty is to Earth . . . and the ones who inhabit it.” He felt sad, but he knew he had no choice. He had to be true to his oath.

  Clea disappeared into her self-made passage and Strange shrugged into his long blue cape. He waited, thinking, but was still surprised when a white glow appeared, then grew to a silent shimmering explosion of light. A red carpet snaked out like some even-edged tongue and Dormammu’s voice boomed out.

  “Come, man of flesh and blood! The time is here!”

  It was Dormammu’s summons. Now, Strange knew, the die was cast! The battle was about to begin. He stepped onto the red carpet and it sucked him into the explosion of light.

  The first thing Dr. Strange saw was Clea, on her knees, her hands encased in enormous metal balls, linked by a chain, her head down. “The girl! What have you done to her?”

  Dormammu’s glowing head spouted more steam. “She knew the penalty for speaking to the enemy! She has betrayed me . . . So, her fate is now linked with yours!”

  Strange protested. “But she merely tried to help—! To convince me not to fight!”

  “Silence!” exclaimed Dormammu. “First, she shall witness your defeat . . . Then, she shall be the next to die! Dormammu has spoken!” He raised a hand. “Now, let the battle begin! The battle which shall end, as have all those in the past, with the complete victory of Dormammu, master of the dark domain!”

  His hand slashed down and yellow ribbons of energy coiled out, divided, divided again, then streaked toward Strange, but the master of the mystic arts spun a spell of his own that deflected the rays of light.

  I know now that I have made the right decision, he thought. No matter what the consequences, Dormammu is too powerful, too evil, to be allowed to exist!

  Flames were met by a mystic shield. Arching spears of energy were deflected. No matter what the cost or consequence—he must be destroyed! Radiant force was met by impenetrable might. But, he shall see that I, too, have magical weapons. He swiftly spun a cocoon of light-force around Dormammu, but it lasted only seconds, not long enough for Strange to consolidate the advantage.

  The cocoon melted away and Dormammu spoke. “So, human! You are a more capable foe than I had suspected! All the more pity that I shall be forced to vanquish you!”

  The battle raged on. Spell met incantation; force met resistance. Glowing symbols were drawn in the air and erased with another powerful spell. Curse met curse; realities were shifted, the surreal became the norm. The battle raged between two completely alien foes, foes with only one thing in common—an awesome mastery of the powers of magic!

  In a silent retreat in the Tibetan mountains, an aged mystic observed every detail of the fateful confrontation. He was the Ancient One.

  “There is no turning back now,” he whispered. “The game must be played to the end.” He closed his eyes and prayed. “May the light of the Vishanti shine upon Stephen Strange . . . and may the omnipotent Oshtur grant him wisdom and strength!”

  Dormammu’s attack grew stronger and Dr. Strange was pressed to his limits. Try as I may, I cannot break through his defenses. I cannot find a way to reach him!

  In Dormammu’s mind was this thought: I am stronger than he, but never before have I seen such courage . . . such valor. But neither courage nor valor alone are enough to prevail against my superior might!

  In the mind of the helpless Clea was this thought: It matters not who shall win . . . In any event I am doomed! It will soon be over. The mortal one cannot survive much longer!

  The great battle raged across the length and breadth of the dark domain. But unknown to Strange at the time, the battle had weakened the shield that Dormammu had erected to confine the mindless ones. They broke through while Dormammu’s attention was elsewhere. A vast horde of the savage, ruthless creatures spilled into the domain of Dormammu.

  Suddenly Strange saw Dormammu break off his attack. “I shall attend to you later, Earthling!” Dormammu said as he turned away. “I see a more pressing problem to dispose of!”

  The master of the dark domain turned his back on Strange and lifted his hands high. A radiance of light grew around him, and Strange knew he could pierce it from behind, but he hesitated. It is my chance . . . but I cannot do battle in such a manner.

  Then the mindless ones charged into view, their beams slashing forth from the dark slits in their heads; but Dormammu had created an emergency barrier before them. Their beams splashed off, but as their numbers increased, the beams began to penetrate, further and further, into the barrier.

  “Back, creatures of the night!” Dormammu shouted. “Back, I command you, by the seven rings of Raggador!”

  The creatures multiplied and Strange could see that the quickly erected shield was not going to hold. He knew that if Dormammu’s barrier was ruptured, many innocent creatures living in the dark domain would be killed. He had to help.

  His fingers went to the jewel at his throat and a light shone forth from the enchanted amulet. “Stand still!” he ordered Dormammu as the light bathed him. “Let the power of my amulet seep into you, adding to your own!”

  Fortified by the energy from the gleaming jewel, Dormammu’s strength increased and the barrier held. Then with an outward pulsing of light he drove the mindless ones back and back, until they were once again confined in their mystic prison.

  Then instead of expressing gratitude, Dormammu turned upon Strange with rage. “Curse you, mortal! Curse the fact that I needed your help! Curse the woeful fate that has placed me in your debt! I cannot slay you now! I cannot destroy the one who has saved me!”

  Strange smiled grimly. It is as I suspected, he thought. He is evil, true, but only by our human standards. According to his own lights, he has his own moral code.

  Strange acknowledged that Dormammu was in his debt, but he asked only two promises to be kept and the de
bt was paid: that no harm must come to the female he had imprisoned for trying to help, and that Dormammu vow never to invade Earth.

  The master of the dark domain agreed. “But I shall never rest until I have avenged this indignity!” Then he was gone.

  Strange turned to the white-haired young woman, now freed of her metal balls of bondage. “What will become of you, now? Perhaps there could be a way to take you back with me?”

  But Clea had refused, saying she preferred staying in her world—but that she would never forget Doctor Stephen Strange.

  Reluctantly, Strange departed the dark domain, and returned to the Tibetan monastery of the Ancient One. There he found the old man amazingly revitalized. Strange’s defeat of Dormammu had broken a spell the master of the dark domain had put upon him. As a reward Strange was given a new cape, with great spells woven into it, and a new and more powerful amulet, the fabled Eye of Agamotto.

  Strange shook his head. There was no clue there, in Clea’s origins, for her present whereabouts—or none that he could detect. She had eventually come to him, exiled from the dark dimension, and they had built a life together.

  Distressed, Strange ran through the entire sequence again, quickly. The Ancient One had dispatched Strange to do battle in Dormammu’s own land. Strange had had to fight his way through foe after foe, just to be able to meet Dormammu. Reason had not worked, not against Dormammu’s determination to conquer Earth. Clea had tried to warn him, and eventually her warning had borne fruit, for in aiding Dormammu to defeat the mindless ones he had placed the mighty magician in debt to him.

  But none of it, none of it, offered a clue. If Dormammu was behind Nightmare’s action, if he was in some way manipulating Nightmare, that horrendous dream master did not seem to know it.

  No, the clues were obscure. Perhaps they were there, perhaps not. Strange knew of no other way to proceed than the way he had been proceeding: onward.