Marvel Novel Series 07 - Doctor Strange - Nightmare Read online

  Eighteen

  Strange inhaled deeply, pulling air deep into his lungs, energizing himself. The corridor was long and fraught with danger. If it was something conjured by Nightmare, it would not be easy. Nightmare would put many obstacles in his path, many dangers, even more tricks. But there was nothing else to do. He must search for and find Clea.

  He must.

  The forty-sixth door: a Roman senate, a group of toga-clad senators, their eyes surreptitiously upon one, a lean, hawk-faced man wearing a crown of laurel wreaths. Suddenly one of the senators pulled out a Colt .45 and blasted the man in the purple-edged toga. The man staggered, his eyes wild; blood splattered. Others of the Romans pulled weapons from their robes and the air was hazy with smoke and deafening with the simultaneous thunder of the pistols. The laurel crown fell away as the man dropped under the barrage. He muttered something to one of the men, and died.

  Strange closed the door thoughtfully. A twist in history. Like the reality of Kong and the odd switch on that. Fictional characters became flesh and blood, real historical characters have their reality sharply changed. Caesar still died, but in a different manner.

  Door number forty-seven.

  A roughly spherical, semitransparent blob floated just a ways off from the door. Metal bands circled it and pressed in deeply. The bands were fastened together by a vertical device, knobbed and studded with lights. Beyond the floating blob was a bleak landscape of grays and blacks and dirty whites, slab-sided mesas, fluted plateaus, alkaline deserts.

  “Orrrrkk!”

  The thin scream of sound came from the creature and little jets fired, bringing the thing toward the archway. It was as if it had waited there for centuries, waiting for the door to open.

  Strange slammed it.

  Forty-eight. Is there no end? Strange thought with irritation and considerable weariness.

  Human heads dotted a sandy plain as far as he could see. They were buried up to their necks and he recognized some of them as friends. Others took longer; they were people he had known in his youth, or at medical school. He heard the thunder of hooves and saw a troop of red-coated cavalry coming over the horizon, whooping and shouting, heedless of the heads beneath their feet.

  When they got closer, leaving a bloody trail behind them, Strange saw their faces were all the same, and they were all his.

  “Stephen!” It was Clea, just below the door, her white hair blowing in the wind, up to her neck in the sand. “Save me!”

  Strange knew it was illusion. The figures on the horses, wearing Strange’s face, galloped on, destroying, killing, maiming. Stephen Strange slammed the door and leaned against it.

  “Illusion!” He knew it was illusion. It had to be illusion!

  Door forty-nine: a dark-gray stone statue of a seated astronaut topped a massive pyramid. Nearly naked worshipers cowered at the base, their offerings bright and bloody on the lowest steps.

  Door fifty.

  Hooded men rode huge fish in purplish water. The men trailed bubbles and the fish wore jewelry. There was some glass or protection between Strange and the water. There was a hint of a group of lighted domes far off, beneath the sea.

  Door fifty-one.

  A vast fleet of starships drifted past a red sun. The ships were enormous, bubbled with domes, spiny with tall, tapering metal masts capped with swiveling weapons. There was no hint of Clea.

  Strange’s enforced calmness was wearing thin. Time was moving. There was no telling where Clea might be. Strange needed help.

  “The Eye of Agamotto . . . show me Clea, my beloved . . .”

  The medallion on his chest floated free from its frame and rose, shimmering, to stick to Strange’s forehead.

  A spot of light within his mind grew and grew until it was everything. Within it was Clea . . . Black hair, gray skin, white pupils staring from black eyeballs—a negative!

  A rasping curl of sound reached his ears and then the image flickered. Horned beasts, flights of birds, overflowing garbage bags, newborn babies, a soundless nova—all flickered in and out with Clea’s negative image, until she was gone and the rapidly changing mind image showed nothing but the endless variety of the universe.

  But Strange had learned one thing. The Eye floated back to the frame hung from a chain around his neck, clicking quietly into place. Strange sprinted down the corridor.

  Sixty . . . sixty-seven . . . seventy . . . seventy-five . . .

  Seventy-seven.

  Strange halted, his hand going out toward the door, then it stopped. He drew back his hand. “By the mighty Srak of Thoris, defender of the door into death, I command you to open!”

  The door rattled, then slowly swung open. Beyond was the purest white.

  Again, the long garbled cry, vaguely human and decidedly plaintive.

  “Gorath! Sagor, the Salaquin of Talmuth! Oshtur the Omnipotent!” Strange’s protective spells wove a sphere of strength around him. Then, for the first time, Strange stepped across the portal of one of the doors.

  Heat . . . cold . . . pleasure . . . intense pain . . . Brilliant bursts of ebony black assaulted his eyes. Salt, autumn leaves, the stench of burning flesh struck his nose. Every molecule of his body was brought to a peak effect, screaming at him with energy: we hurt, we exalt, we are stressed, we are pleasured, we are, we are, we are . . .

  “Clea!” The name came out of Strange’s mouth as a garbled harsh sound. “Clea!”

  Again, he heard the gurgling, hissing sound. A voice, but was it the voice of Clea? It sounded like a monster.

  Something black and gleaming twisted out of nothingness and struck at him. A wave of his hand and circles of green sprang from Strange’s fingers, much to his surprise—they should have been crimson. Furthermore, the protective spell did not work.

  The black shape bit into him and a wave of sheerest pleasure startled Strange. He moaned in ecstasy, in involuntary reaction. “Shalnor!” he cried, breaking free of the savage clutch of the creature. “Shabboth the Great!”

  The black gleaming thing was vaguely snake-shaped, but with great flapping wings. It twisted and struck back at Strange. He heard a cry of warning and turned swiftly. A red creature like a thick-legged spider was coming down at him. A striped squat thing swam toward him, a greenish mouth yawning.

  “Itnahsiv!” he cried and a quiver went through the attacking beasts. “Ruthso! Rrotlav! Mihpares!” The words stumbled awkwardly from his mouth, but they caused a quick retreat in the attacking horde.

  Strange watched with grim satisfaction as they writhed, wiggled, and hopped away into the enveloping whiteness. He turned at the faint harsh cry. “Clea! I’m coming!” The words were awkward and rough. He sensed where she was and went toward her.

  Her reversed image swam out of the whiteness and her hand reached toward him. They touched and a bolt of psychic energy flashed. Clea was again in her normal colors, unreversed.

  “Stephen!”

  He blinked, then looked at his own hand. He seemed normal, and she was normal . . . and the space around them inky black in every direction. “No,” he gasped. “It should not be!” The realization struck: he had become one with the reverse dimension. Instead of perceiving it as negative, he saw it as positive.

  He was trapped!

  Nineteen

  “Stephen, I took a step and fell into this! Everything was white and things swam in it!” She pressed herself to him. “Thank Oshtur you are here and everything is all right.”

  “No,” he said heavily. “It is worse than ever.” Quickly, he told her of the reversed polarity.

  “But you must have a spell, a . . . a . . .” She looked aghast.

  “I escaped those creatures by calling upon the dark powers, but reversing their names—which made them positive to the creatures and evoked their powers—but now, something failed. You should have joined me and we could have left; but now, I’ve joined you.”

  “Where’s the portal?”

  He gestured. A fiery rectangle, curved at the top,
glowed in the blackness not far off. Clea tugged at his arm. “Then let us go, Stephen . . .”

  “No. If we passed that arch we would disintegrate. We are antimatter now.”

  “Then why did you not explode when you came here, or me, for that matter?”

  “You mere protected by a spell from Nightmare—we assume it is Nightmare—and I carried my own protection. But that has been dispelled. It was a trap. Nightmare knew I would find you and the trap was made very cleverly. We are both trapped here.”

  Clea thought hard. She had originated in a dimension alien to that of the realm of man, one ruled by the dread Dormammu. There she had seen countless odd things. Something tugged at her, some faint memory crying to be heard, some solution.

  “But I shall try,” Strange said. “By the seven rings of Raggador, by the thirteen lights of the Cycle of Fire, I order our release!”

  Black flashes exploded in the ebony vastness. The most dense of darkness swirled, black on black, but they did not leave.

  “By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth, by the fiery centurions of the stars, I order our release!”

  Nothing. The black void rippled silently, but they were still there.

  “Ancient One!” he cried. Clea looked at him, startled, for Strange only called upon the spirit of the Ancient One in the most dreadful of situations.

  Space heaved and split for a fraction of a second, showing white fire, then it was all dark again. There was a somber note, low and forbidding, echoing through the void, a deep resonance from some strange bell.

  There was a peal of laughter, quavering on the edge of insanity. It sent chills over Clea’s skin.

  “No, Strange,” the voice said. “You cannot escape. You cannot!” Again, the mad laughter burst forth.

  “Nightmare,” Clea said. She was frightened, yet calm without. The moment of battle had arrived.

  “Show yourself,” Strange said.

  “Of course,” Nightmare said, appearing above them in a bubble of green light. “It would be most discourteous of me not to.” He laughed again, mockingly. “So, Strange, you have joined us here? How gallant of you! The hero to the rescue! I knew that absurd emotion of yours would spell your final defeat!”

  “Not final yet, Nightmare!”

  “Oh? Well, no matter. Soon, Strange, soon. I am needed elsewhere. There are a million souls who are going to bed now thinking of my puppet and providing me a door into your world.”

  Strange flung forth his hand and lightning shot like a missile toward the green-clad Nightmare. The electricity splashed off the bubble of green light and Nightmare laughed again.

  “Losing your punch, quack? Well, I leave you now to a lesser being, one of equal stature to yours. We must fight fair, now mustn’t we?” The bubble faded and was gone.

  “Lesser being?” Clea asked aloud, looking around. They floated in oppressive blackness. With no points of reference it was chokingly close. Attack could come from any quarter and they did not know what kind it would be.

  “The lights of Ashur-nadir-ahe!” Strange said, flinging a sudden spray of light from his fingertips. The dots expanded as they flew out, becoming glow bulbs. They lit very little, but they gave Clea and Strange some sort of reference. They were no longer in suffocating blackness, but hung suspended in a void that had size and even direction.

  There was a blood-curdling scream and from behind them, sweeping in through the global network of glowing bulbs, came a figure from the troubled dream of a madman. Monstrous and scaly, clawed and bat-winged, slavering and bug-eyed, it roared down at them like a demented dragon.

  “The shield of Shalmanser!” Strange exclaimed, calling upon the magician king of ancient Assyria. The dragon-thing ran into an invisible wall and smashed itself to a bloody pulp. The blood and gore ran down an invisible slope and pooled itself into a gravity-free ball of glistening red and white. Then the ball spread itself out into a thin membrane that deepened in color and became brown and furry and seeped right through the shield of Shalmanser.

  “By the blood of the Bithnian knights,” Clea shouted, “I command you to stop!” A quiver went through the spreading furry membrane; two eyes grew in the center, yellow and malevolent—but still it came at them.

  “Adadnirari, Sargon, and Mutakkil-Nusku! Summon your warriors of the silver swords!” cried Strange.

  The glowing balls of light expanded into dark-visaged warriors in thick leather and metal armor, with long shields bossed in silver. Their hair was thick and oily, their skins dark, their short swords gleaming. Without hesitation they attacked the furry brown membrane, hacking at it with cries and grunts.

  The brown membrane uttered a thin high scream from each severed portion of its flesh. It shrank back, pulling away from the swordsmen, who followed bravely. A tentacle grew out from a side and engulfed one of the Assyrian warriors, rolling him up in a brown ruglike extension. The warrior screamed and was dissolved into blood and torn flesh. The brown-fur tentacle flung away the bent shield and broken sword and reached for another.

  Strange grabbed Clea’s arm. “Come,” he said harshly, and they moved through the blackness toward an unseen spot which Strange sensed was the portal into the mysterious corridor. The corridor itself might be an illusion, a trap set by Nightmare, but it was their only hope.

  The furry membrane contracted still further under the onslaught of the bearded warriors, but suddenly it sped away, faster than the warriors could pursue. It was not retreating, however, it was cutting Strange and Clea off from their escape.

  The warriors returned to glowing balls of cold light and kept pace with Strange. “Ishtar preserve us,” muttered Clea.

  “Loosen the arrows of Ariarathes!” Strange exclaimed, calling upon the warrior king of Cappadocia. Flaming arrows shot from the network of glowing lights, stabbing into the furry creature. The flames spread across the matted brown coat. The eyes retreated, the creature screamed and became a blob of molten rock. Which flowed toward Strange.

  “By the wall of Hasdrubal, the ruler of Carthage!” Strange exclaimed. The leading edge of the lava solidified and the still-molten rock flowed over and under it, held by the invisible force of Strange’s spell, and solidified.

  “What is it?” Clea asked.

  Strange did not have time to answer, for the lava became water, and rushed on at them. The water became meteors, which Strange deflected with a wave of his hand. The meteors shot past them and Strange and Clea sped on.

  The meteors curved around; merging, they became a human figure. “The Ancient One!” Clea exclaimed, startled by the image of the Oriental mage.

  “No,” Strange said. He sent a blast force from his right hand and a net of illusion from his left. The blast against the frail figure blinded the creature to the enveloping net. The lines of psychic force wove quickly around the stunned “Oriental” and imprisoned him . . . for a full second.

  The creature burst through the force field and became the dark-robed image of Death—the skull face, the sharp scythe, the striding walk.

  “Who are you?” Clea asked as they retreated cautiously.

  “Call me . . . your bad dream.” The skull face laughed, a dry, dusty, hollow noise. The scythe cut through the air but missed, and Strange stood in its path.

  “Hold!” The creature froze, the weapon drawn back for another slash. “By the ring of Solomon, by the golden scarab of Sneferu, by the staff of Tai-tsung—I command you to stop!”

  The figure of Death did not move. It stood frozen in time and space. But from behind the tall figure came another, robed in white, lightly bearded and ascetic, with a benevolent smile on his face. “Peace, my son,” the man said.

  Without a second’s hesitation Strange leveled a pointed finger at the Christlike apparition and sent a blast of searing force at it. The figure withstood the blast, but stayed frozen, hand uplifted in the gesture of peace.

  The sound of jolly laughter came from behind the still statues of Death and Christ, and a fat man with a white beard
and tunic and tights of brilliant red, edged with white ermine, emerged. “Hello, hello, hello,” he boomed with great amusement.

  Strange was not amused. “It won’t work,” he said and another blast of psychic lightning struck and froze the figure.

  “What next?” Clea asked.

  What next was a baby, undiapered and toddling, bubbling laughter on her lips. Hands outstretched, blue eyes happy, it made its unsteady way straight at Clea and Strange. The Sorcerer Supreme did not waste a moment. Clea gasped as Strange fired another searing bolt that disintegrated not only the baby, but all the other frozen figures.

  “Clea! This way!” Strange cried. Clea took one look at the fading specks of light where the child had been, and followed.

  It seemed a great distance but they finally saw the round-topped rectangle of light that was the portal back to reality. It seemed normal, a window in the blackness to the softly lit stone corridor. Clea arrowed gratefully toward the light, but Strange stopped her.

  “No, Clea!”

  She looked at him in surprise, but he seemed lost in thought. “I became ‘real’ in this negative dimension, a trick of Nightmare’s. If we go back, we are antimatter, remember, and anything we touch will destroy us.” He held out his arms to her and she moved within the enveloping protection of his cape.

  “Say this with me,” he said. “Saddhatissa, Vatuka and Siva!” She said the words after him. “Abu-djafar El-mansur, Yazid the Powerful, Al-muktadi the Merciless.”

  Space seemed to flow around them and flecks of white spun before their eyes. “Micombero, Nyamoya and Burundi!” The white blotches grew, spinning and merging. “Sumuabi, Hammurabi, and the unknown lord of Kassite!” The spinning white blotches spread out to encompass the void. The space was mostly white.

  “Enib-Adad, Adanirari, the Tukulti-Ninurtam son of Shalmanser!” The white had driven out almost all the black. There were only small explosions of black here and there, fighting back. “Jeroboam! Zimri! Amaziah!” The blackness was gone; there was only the white of the negative dimension.